


336 Hours

by Razzaroo



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are dying in Los Angeles and the threat of conflict with the Downworld looms over the Institute. Julian Blackthorn brokers a deal with Gwyn ap Nudd to get them investigated but another threat lurks in the shadows, one much more personal that could rock the Nephilim's world to the core.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Good Deed...

The hills were in a bleak state; deserted of any tourists or runners, the sky overhead was covered in a blanket of pearly grey clouds that threatened rain. The grass had been worn away by many feet over the years, leaving it thin and sparse, non-existent in places. On either side, the land stretched away, patched green and brown with fields trying to recover from a winter of floods. A thin March wind nipped at Julian’s ears and he huddled into his jacket, wishing for all the world he’d brought a thicker one. His companion had left to examine the toposcope that squatted atop a rocky outcrop at the very peak of the hill.

“A pretty meeting place you’ve picked here. I remember crossing these very hills with your own brother.”

Julian flinched at the voice, dry as leaves in autumn, and stood up. Gwyn ap Nudd had crept out of nowhere it seemed. He stood on the dirt path, bare toes curling around a lump of rock, one gauntleted hand scratching at his bare arm. He looked completely inhuman.

“You could have made an effort not to be so conspicuous,” Julian said, and regretted letting it slip out immediately. He felt the colour rush his cheeks.

“Ah, yes.” Gwyn spread his arms, “Look at all the people here who will go reporting that they’ve seen a faery.”

Julian scuffed the dirt with his boot, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve had people be ruder,” Gwyn said, “Some of them in my own Hunt. Steren, for example. And you hear the things your brother has to say.”

“I don’t want to hear what my brother has to say,” Julian said, fighting to keep his voice level. Gwyn was trying to get a rise out of him, he knew it. “I’m here to…proposition you.”

“I’m flattered, little Blackthorn, but I’m already spoken for.”

“This isn’t going as planned.” Julian slumped back onto the bench, “I came here with a proposal for you.”

“Why here, though?” Gwyn gestured to the hill, “Why not somewhere even nicer? Wales, maybe.” He showed a wicked grin, “Cadair Idris in particular.”

“Neutral ground,” Julian replied, “I knew you wouldn’t come to America and I’m not going into your…domain.”

“So England. It could be worse.” Gwyn settled on the grass, despite the damp, and made himself comfortable. “Let’s hear this little idea of yours then. I have a Hunt to get back to.”

A figure dropped down onto the path alongside Julian. Dressed in white, her hems were muddied and black hair tumbled down her back like ink toppled onto a clean tablecloth. She tipped her head and that hair spilled over her shoulder as she watched Gwyn with eyes as grey as a storm.

“This is Mab,” Julian said, gesturing to her as she straightened, “Queen of the Unseelie Court.”

Gwyn regarded her with narrowed eyes, “It’s unusual for the Unblessed Ones to get involved with Shadowhunters.”

“These are unusual times,” Mab said, and her voice was like silk, “Surely you’ve heard about the murders.”

“Of course. News travels fast in the Downworld.” Gwyn said. He spat out the word “Downworld” as if it had stung his tongue. “I fail to see why this would bring a Shadowhunter and the Unseelie queen to our rainy isle.” He moved to stand up.

“I also fail to see how it’s my business,” he said, “Now, if you would excuse me. I want nothing more to do with New World queens bringing me into their plots and troubles; once was enough.”

Mab stepped forward and placed her foot firmly on the hem of Gwyn’s cloak, jerking him to a stop. He glared but she just ground her foot into the fabric of his cloak.

“It is your business,” she said venomously, “A threat to one group of us is a threat to us all eventually. Didn’t you ignore the Circle too?”

“What can I say, I’m an isolationist.” Gwyn tugged his cloak out from under her foot, “Go to his Clave, get help from them. It’s their job, yes?”

“People have gone to the Clave,” Julian said, “And they don’t think it’s serious enough; they think it’s just Downworlder squabbles getting out of hand.” He took a deep breath. This was what he’d been dreading, “I can get at least my Institute to look into it, but I want something in return.”

“Then ask her,” Gwyn said, gesturing to Mab, “I’m sure she can give you whatever your heart desires or whatever _gwehilion_ it is you mortals lust for.”

The nip of the wind stung Julian’s cheeks but he didn’t look down, not even when Gwyn turned that mismatched glare to him. Julian lifted his chin and met Gwyn’s eyes; he’d stared down demons and Endarkened Shadowhunters and Tavvy through the terrible twos. He’d seen worse and he wasn’t going to let this faery intimidate him on a windswept hill, far from home.

“She doesn’t have what I want,” he said, “You could at least listen.”

“And what do you want? I can give you apples,” Gwyn sneered, “Do you want me to bring daddy back?”

“I told you he wouldn’t listen,” Mab said softly, “He never has, unless there’s something in it for _him._ He was the same the first time someone was killing us; if you want a favour for talking your people round, I can give it. Lord Roiben would give it.”

She spoke quietly but loud enough for Gwyn to hear her, even over the wind. Julian picked up that she was goading him, playing on any sense of pride and superiority over other faeries to try and get him to give Julian what he wanted.

“I don’t want anything from Lord Roiben,” Julian said. He looked directly at Gwyn, who curled his lip, “Lord Roiben can’t give my brother back.”

“Oh, that’s what this is all about!” Gwyn said, scowl melting into mirth, anger passing like a storm cloud, “You want my _March_ back! And in return you offer to pull some strings with that little castle you run? Is that worth my while?”

He was looming over Julian and Julian was suddenly swathed in the wild, feral smell of faery. The scent clogged with the cold air at the back of Julian’s mouth and made his throat itch.

“If these murders carry on,” Julian said, “Eventually, even you’ll hurt from it.”

“There are murmurs of war already,” Mab chipped in, “And you won’t be able to stay neutral. The balance we have with the Nephilim is precarious as is, especially considering the events of five years ago. The neglect to these murders is rocking the boat of that balance.” She cleared her throat, “Take the boy’s offer and we can preserve what little dignity and protection that our people have.”

“Dignity?” Gwyn backed away a little, “Is that what we call it now?” He threw up his hands, “You can have _March_ back, little Blackthorn, but _I_ set the terms for his return and _I_ return him on my own leisure. Good enough?”

The swell of happiness rose up in Julian’s chest too quickly for him to smother a delighted smile, “Yes! More than, actually. The Clave can’t know I came here; it has to look like this came from you.”

“And,” Gwyn continued, “I’ll be around to make sure you keep up your end of the promise.”

“I wouldn’t--” Julian started to protest but Mab pulled on his arm to shut him up.

“Mortal words have about as much worth as the roots of a mountain,” Gwyn said, and Mab nodded in agreement.

“If mountains didn’t have roots, they’d fly away,” Julian muttered and, while Gwyn raised an eyebrow, neither faery commented.

“One thing I am wondering,” Gwyn said, and he cocked his head, “Should any of my Hunt follow me, and I lose them, how do you plan on repaying me for that?”

Julian looked to Mab; they had discussed this but he hadn’t wanted it to come up. He didn’t really have any answer that would make him happy. Mab just shrugged, as if to say “ _your call.”_

“If you lose one of your Hunt,” he said slowly, averting his gaze and looking across the windswept county of Herefordshire, “Then I…I offer myself to take their place.”

Mab sucked in a sharp breath but it wasn’t in surprise; Julian felt it was a sound of approval. Something churned in his stomach and he risked a peek at Gwyn ap Nudd. The tall faery’s grin curled in satisfaction and he took a dagger from his belt, drawing it across his palm to open a red line on his hand. He gestured for Julian’s hand and did the same.

“We have a bargain,” he said, pressing his cut to Julian’s, mixing blood between their palms, “An oath sealed in blood.” He pulled Julian close and his lips brush against Julian’s ear, “I will hold you to this, little Blackthorn.”

Julian just swallowed and his fingers brushed against Gwyn’s wrist.

He hoped against all hopes that this killer never came into contact with the Wild Hunt.


	2. Homecoming

“You’re being quiet,” Mark said, reaching across to nudge at Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran just looked at him with the slightest of smiles.

“You just want me to talk?” Kieran said, “Not conversation? Very well. The creased crow carries the carrion to Cork. The squeamish sparrow soars sideways to Spain. The robin romps among the rosebuds.”

“Are those meant to be cloak and dagger phrases?” Mark said before Kieran could go any further, “Because they are terrible. You’re definitely in the right line of work, if those are the best cod phrases you can come up with.”

“How about ‘ _the smart mouthed half-blood gets left on the street’_?” Kieran rolled his eyes, “You wanted me to talk.”

“Not nonsense.” Mark thought for a moment, “Talk about that thing with the sluagh or something.”

Kieran frowned, “I’ve told you about the sluagh. Many times. It’s near enough pillow talk now.”

“It’s a good story.” Mark shrugged, “At least the way you tell it.”

Cernunnos shook his head and his antlers rattled. Mark reached up tug on one of them, “You’ll take an eye out. Glamour doesn’t stop you from existing.”

“If only it did,” Kieran shuddered, “I loathe Ironside. It creeps under the skin and stays there, no matter how many green fields and patches of clover you roll in.”

Gwyn, who strode up ahead, ignored them both. Mark struggled to imagine either Kieran or Gwyn rolling in patches of clover; tearing through them, perhaps, but rolling was a definite no. Still, he saw how being in a city made Kieran’s hands shake and he reached out to steady them.

“You get used to it,” he said, though of course _he’s_ never had the iron sickness, “And even if you don’t, we’ll be out of here before you…” he trailed off and frowned. He recognised this place. He’d tracked demons along these streets with Helen, following them until they plunged into the sea to wait out for another day.

“Would you look at that,” he said thoughtfully, “Gwyn’s brought me home.”

Kieran hissed and his hand flinched away. Gwyn’s shoulders stiffened but, when he turned, his face was arranged into mock irritation.

“Well,” he said, “You weren’t supposed to guess. You’ve ruined the surprise.”

“I…” Mark looked between the two of them, “I didn’t think—”

“Don’t you say you didn’t know about it,” Gwyn interrupted. Du y Moroedd snorted onto the pavement and the pedestrians parted around them, oblivious to them, “Because you knew. You know you knew.”

“I thought you were joking!” Mark said, clutching at Cernunnos’s reins. He looked to Kieran, “Did you know about this?”

Kieran cleared his throat, “I knew.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Kieran’s face turned to ice, “You never asked.” His eyes slid to Gwyn, “And I was told not to.”

A hot anger built in Mark’s chest, “You know I don’t belong there anymore.”

“Then you don’t have to stay,” Gwyn said and he continued along the path, “Come back when this business is done; two weeks, should everything go wrong, and then we bow out gracefully. How the Clave handles matters is no longer our business after this.”

Mark looked at Kieran, who just kept his head down and followed Gwyn’s footsteps. The Institute, Mark knew, wasn’t far and he felt slightly ill at the idea of seeing his siblings again. They’ll have changed, they won’t recognise him, he won’t recognise _them_ …

The Institute loomed overhead and Gwyn stopped to take Cernunnos’s reins from Mark.

“Wipe that look off of your face, _March_ ,” he said, “You’re the one who has been pining for them.”

“You did drop it on me like a ton of bricks,” Mark said. He side eyed Kieran, “Both of you did.”

“You have faced demons,” Kieran said as Mark approached the Institute steps, “I’m certain you can handle your family.”

“That’s not the same.” Mark turned but they were gone, vanished as if they’d never been here. He scowled, “Thanks a lot.”

The wood of the Institute door was cool under his hand, carved with protective runes and symbols that hadn’t been there before. Mark sighed and bumped his forehead against the door, feeling the edge of a rune digging into his skin. He’d thought about his homecoming plenty of times before; never once had it been like this. He traced one of the symbols before he pushed the door open, spilling golden sunlight into the Institute.

The sunlight from the windows poured down onto a foyer that was gleaming and whole. The floor had been ripped up and replaced; clearly, no one had been able to get the stains out. The windows had been replaced by clear glass and dust motes floated lazily in the sunlight they let through. The air smelled like home. Mark shut the door behind him and just stood breathing in that smell, nostalgia rolling over him like a wave. Upstairs, he could hear the low rumble of voices, every breath and creak of the building. The banisters had been replaced with carvings of twisting vines and flowered branches. The motif was more fey than Shadowhunter and Mark had to wonder whose idea that had been.

“Anyone around?” Mark crept across the foyer. The floor boards squeaked beneath his bare feet. The Institute had never been this quiet before, he was sure of it. “Hello?”

There was the rumbling off footsteps overhead and Mark retreated away from the staircase, reaching for his bow. A blur of black gear and brown hair hurtled down the stairs, almost falling down them, and skidded to a halt just a hair’s breadth away from him. A pair of blue eyes looked up at him from under a blunt-cut fringe.

“They let you come home,” Livia said. She looked like she wanted to touch him, to hold onto him, but was afraid to as if he was breakable, “You’re really here.”

“You got taller,” Mark blurted out, and kicked himself for it. Of course she’d gotten taller.

“Yeah, that happens,” Livia said with a small laugh, twisting her fingers. She practically bounced on the spot, “Wait here a second.”

She bolted back up the stairs, calling for Tiberius. Mark’s hand dropped away from the bow and he approached the stairs, reaching out to run his fingers over the banister. The carvings were intricate and lifelike, too detailed to be made by human hands. He could still hear Livia calling for Ty. His hand tightened on the banister.

“Mark?”

He looked up. The voice was too old, broken in and deeper now, but unmistakeable. Julian was standing on the landing. He was tired and haggard looking but there were hints of past smiles on his face. One hand was bandaged and curled on the banister.

“Jules.”

There was a strain of awkwardness in the air that hadn’t been there with Livia. It collapsed when Julian’s face broke out into a relieved smile.

“Welcome home.”

Behind him, there was a murmur of voices as Livia finally tracked down Tiberius and the others. Mark returned Julian’s smile.

“It’s good to be back.”


	3. Evidence

**Day One (319 hours remaining.)**

The satyr was found in the late afternoon. One of his curving black horns was chipped, as if rammed into a wall, and his thin beard was caked with dried blood; his tongue had been cut out. His skin was marked with red wounds and the split toes of his hooves were rust red. Mark crouched down beside him, turned his face up. The honey-coloured goat’s eyes were glazed and clouded, and his mouth was filled with dry blood. He muttered something that Julian didn’t understand before he stood up.

“Is this how things have been?” Mark asked, shrugging off his borrowed jacket to cover the dead satyr.

Emma and Julian shared an uncomfortable look.

“This is…less bad than it has been,” Emma said, “One of them we found was exploded. It could have been anyone, mundane or Downworlder.”

“For how long?”

“A couple of weeks,” Julian said, and he winced at the anger that brightened in Mark’s eyes, “They were random at first. We thought they were from squabbles between Downworlders, or iron poisoning. Oh, Mark, don’t look at me like that!”

He rubbed at the cut on his palm, which was healing red and itchy. He stepped forward, wanting to make that angry tension in his brother’s shoulders fall away, but something caught his eye. It was a thin shaft of glass, the tip of it whittled and carved into a sharp point.

“Glass arrow,” Emma said, peering at it over Julian’s shoulder as he turned it over in his hands.

“Those are Seelie weapons,” Mark said, “Nasty things.”

Julian looked down at the dead satyr, “But where are the others?” Arrow in hand, he crouched down to pull back the jacket, pointing out the arrow wounds on him, “They don’t dissolve, surely.”

Mark tapped his own quiver, “They were retrieved. If you’re smart, you don’t leave you arrows for anyone to take. So you have Seelie involvement. Why am I not surprised?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said, rocking back on her heels, her face thoughtful, “Seelie faeries have died as well. And besides…”

“The Seelie Court has moved on to greener pastures.” A new voice interrupted them. Mab. “ _Safer_ pastures.”

Julian let the jacket drop again and straightened up. Mab had drawn her long hair back into a ponytail and smoothed out the sharpness of her features but hadn’t bothered to glamour away the tips of her ears. While mundanes ignored her, the fact that she’d hidden some of her features betrayed that she had allowed them to see her.

“My lady,” Julian said, nodding his head to her. Emma and Mark both drew back, regarding her with guarded suspicion. Julian could understand why but being looked at like that by Shadowhunters wouldn’t do any favours for their standing with the Folk.

“So, this is the famous Mark?” Mab said, stepping forward, extending a hand with a missing finger towards Mark, “The missing Blackthorn?”

“Not the only one,” Mark said stiffly, “No thanks to the Seelie Court.”

“We all have our vices,” Mab said.

“What she did isn’t what I call a vice.”

“Mark,” Julian warned, “Please.”

“This probably isn’t a conversation to have over a dead body.” Emma looked down at the satyr, “We should bury him.”

“The Folk will handle it,” Mab said sharply, “The way Shadowhunters treat bodies is no way for a faery to be treated.” She looked to Mark, “Wouldn’t you agree, Huntsman? Your kind knows about the rituals of death, no?”

“We live for them,” Mark said and, for a moment, Julian couldn’t tell if he was talking about Shadowhunters or the Wild Hunt.

 

* * *

 

**Day One (317 hours remaining.)**

“God damn it!”

The desk rattled when Julian slammed his fist down on it. He’d lined up each piece of evidence he’d gathered out in a row on the scratched wooden desktop: the glass arrow; the broken off tip of a horn; a cracked blade that was identical to a seraph blade; a thin golden chain that had snapped in the hand of a teenage werewolf, as if yanked off of someone’s neck in a struggle. Nothing seemed to connect them. The arrow and the tip of horn had come from Downworlders; the seraph blade indicated Nephilim; the necklace could have come from anyone.  He slumped down on his chair and his forehead slammed into the desk with a thud.

“You know, Jules, beating up your desk really isn’t going to make this easier.”

Julian didn’t respond, even when Emma walked up behind him and shook his shoulder, “You in there, Jules? Have you left the Earth? Will you come back? I don’t know how to fix the washing machine if it goes, and I doubt Mark does either.”

“Is that the only reason you’d miss me? Julian asked, sitting up again.

“That and you’re my best friend and I’ll love you forever and always,” Emma said, clearing space on the desk so she could sit on it, “But the washing machine plays a big part in it too.” She tipped his head up and brushed the hair from his eyes, “Why did you hit the desk, Julian?”

“Nothing’s making sense,” Julian said with a sigh, “None of these are connected.”

“Maybe someone’s trying to throw us off?” Emma suggested, “Obviously, no one wants to get caught.”

“They probably are,” Julian said, “But there’s a bad taste in my mouth over this.”

“You think it’s a Shadowhunter?”

“It would explain why no one else wanted us to get involved.” Julian folded his arms, leant back in his chair, “And it’s happened before.”

“That was different though. They weren’t subtle; they were just nuts,” Emma said. She cast her gaze over the items grouped on the desk behind her, “But maybe someone is making a point.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, “It’s an awful, gross way to do it though. People are sick.”

“And we only have two weeks to find who it is.” Julian pitched forward and rested his forehead against Emma’s thigh. Her hands tangled in his hair, “How are we going to do this, Emma?”

“Not beating up our desks to start with,” Emma said, petting the back of his neck, “We’ll get it, Jules. You’ve got us; you don’t have to do it all on your own.” He felt her twist again, looking back down at the seraph blade, “Malcolm’s coming by in a couple of days; he’ll know something, I’m sure.”

Julian sat up again and looked at her. She’d pulled her hair into a tidy French braid and hadn’t bothered to change out of her gear.

“You’re going out again?” he asked, “Cristina?”

“No, Cristina’s away in Idris, being very busy and important,” Emma said absently, “I just haven’t changed yet.”

There was a small knock on the door and Tiberius poked his head around the door. His unmarked skin made him stand out even more than Mark did.

“What’s wrong, Ty?” Julian asked, standing up. He glanced at Emma, “It’s not the washing machine, is it?”

Tiberius frowned, “No. Mark.”

“Oh, what’s he done?” Julian felt something cold sink into his stomach, “Is it bad?”

Tiberius avoided eye contact, instead looking down at the crack in Julian’s floorboards, “No. He’s met Jaime.”


	4. Runes

Jaime Rosales had been drifting in and out of the Institute for the past three years. He mainly seemed to walk in Cristina’s shadow; when she was in Los Angeles, so was Jaime. Drusilla absolutely adored him. Julian found him downstairs in the kitchen, blowing the steam off of a cup of coffee, with Mark in the seat opposite. Some of Tiberius’s books were piled up at the end of the table.

“What was it like with the Hunt?” Jaime asked, stirring a pile of sugar into his mug, “Do they always run or is there somewhere they go to sleep?”

Mark scowled into the jar of honey he was digging a spoon into, “I can’t talk about it.”

“I won’t go looking for it,” Jaime said, “I just want to know.”

“I can’t tell you; literally, can’t tell you.” Mark licked the honey off of his spoon, “It’s not my fault you wasted your question. Now it’s my turn.” He leant forward and Julian recognised that mischievous look in his eye, “How’s your sex life?”

Jaime choked and sputtered, spitting hot coffee across the table top. Still coughing, he reached out to mop the coffee up with his sleeve. Mark leant back again and scraped the spoon along the bottom of the honey jar, and it was only then that he noticed Julian watching from the doorway.

“Hey Jules,” he said, waving the spoon, “Who’s this?”

“Jaime,” Julian said. “Are you all right?”

Jaime nodded, eyes watering, “Sí, I’m fine.” He looked at Mark, irritated, “That was too personal.”

Mark shrugged, “You shouldn’t have asked me about the Hunt.”

Jaime stood up to make another coffee, “So now we have to watch our words; first come the prying questions, then come the curses I’m sure.”

“Well, here’s a curse for you,” Mark said, “May all the milk you pour curdle.”

Jaime, milk carton in hand, looked from Mark to Julian and then down at the milk carton. As he turned to cautiously add milk to his mug, Julian shot Mark with a glare; Mark simply scooped another lump of honey out of the jar, his face a picture of innocence. Jaime made a sound of disgust as the sour smell of curdled milk filled the kitchen.

“Don’t look like that, Mark,” Julian said, and he had to resist lecturing his older brother, “Take it back.”

“I can’t just take it back. Maybe it will teach him not to put his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Julian dropped his voice to a murmur, “You can’t curse people; you’re not with faeries anymore. No one will trust you if you do.”

“I doubt Shadowhunters trust me much anyway,” Mark said, glaring at Jaime, who was griping to himself in Spanish, “No one trusts a Hunter, Jules.”

“I trust you,” Julian said, “And so does everyone else here. You wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.” He scratched at the Voyance rune on the back of his hand, “I wouldn’t let you in if we didn’t.”

“Ah, Julian,” Jaime said, “All your milk’s ruined.” He looked at the carton woefully before tipping spoiled milk down the sink, the liquid lumpy and stinking. The coffee soon followed suit, “Is Mark going to have his marks back?” He glanced over his shoulder, “Or will asking that get another curse piled on me as well?”

“I might have them redrawn,” Mark said, “What’s it your business?”

“It would send a message,” Jaime said, not turning around as he washed up the mug, “To the Clave, that you stand with us and your family and not with, you know, Downworlders.”

“Gwyn doesn’t like to be called a Downworlder,” Mark said. It sprang to his tongue so quickly that it felt automatic.

“And I don’t think Mark needs to prove himself to the Clave,” Julian said. He bit back saying that the Clave ought to be the ones proving themselves, especially after what they did to Helen. Fighting with Jaime wasn’t something he wanted to do; he liked Jaime, and he knew that alienating the allies they had would be a bad idea, even if Jaime’s remarks brought out Mark’s insecurities about his nature and wrote them all over his brother’s face, “If he wants to be Marked, that shouldn’t have anything to do with the Clave.”

Mark didn’t say anything; he was more focussed than ever on the jar in his hands. Jaime rinsed the mug and set it by the sink to dry, swiping his hands on his gear to dry them off.

“You don’t exist in a vacuum,” he said, eyeing Mark, “Nothing he does won’t be judged by the Clave. He’s from the Wild Hunt; people won’t think he’s here just because he missed you. And I’m sorry, but it’s true.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, “I’ll go to the sea and wash this curse from my hands.”

He slunk out of the kitchen and Julian knew that Drusilla would intercept him before he could leave, drag him to the training room to get him to show her something, anything to keep him from leaving and get some time alone with him. Julian flipped through one of the books Tiberius had left on the table; it was one of their father’s old books about faery glamours, and curses and how to break them.

“Do you think I need to be Marked again?” Mark said, staring at the dregs of honey.

“I…” Julian looked down at the scar that Gwyn ap Nudd had carved into his palm. He curled his fingers over it, hiding the red strip with his fingers, bitten nails digging into the heel of his hand, “Do what you think is the right thing. I can’t decide for you.”

Mark set the jar on the tabletop, spoon standing against the rim. He looked at the ajar door and a streak of sun bisected his face, making his expression difficult to read. One finger traced the pale scar of long-faded rune on the back of his wrist.

“I don’t know,” he said, and Julian didn’t know if Mark was addressing him or talking to himself, “Maybe some. Just the important ones.”

 

* * *

 

**Day Two (312 hours remaining)**

“These are new,” Gwyn said, pressing one finger against the rune that Julian had traced on Mark’s shoulder, “Today?”

Mark winced, because every rune still felt raw and bruised. He was leaning up against Gwyn’s torso, shirt stripped and discarded on the floor, the faery’s legs on either side of him and arms around his waist. They were in a closed off chamber of the Unseelie Court, where Gwyn’s imposed himself on the queen.

“Julian did them,” Mark replied and Gwyn’s hold on him tightened, “Some of them. Someone was…they were saying something, about my Marks. I thought that getting them redrawn would keep people from talking about my family.” He tipped his head back so it rested on Gwyn’s shoulder, “Are you angry?”

“Of course not,” Gwyn said breezily, “Very pretty.”

“They’re not meant to be pretty,” Mark said, “They’re tools, not tattoos.”

The door creaked open and Kieran slipped inside. One of his sleeves was gone, threads fraying, torn off by some denizen of the Unseelie Court. His face was flushed from wine and revelling but his tired looking eyes brightened when he saw Mark.

“You found us,” he said, crawling across the thin bed to kneel and press his forehead against Mark’s chest.

“You’re not very subtle,” Mark said, dizzy with the smell of the Wild Hunt, “You were easy to find.”

Gwyn nuzzled at the pulse point in Mark’s neck, nipping at the thin skin there. Mark shuddered, pleasant chills racing along his spine and lifting the hairs along the back of his neck.

“How’s your little investigation going?” Gwyn asked softly, every word vibrating deep in Mark’s ear.

“It’s going,” Mark said. Was Gwyn really asking this now, even as Kieran’s tongue traced the outlines of the new runes? “We have something and—Kieran, don’t bite there!”

He felt Kieran smile against his ribs, over the throb of his bitten rune.

“Are you glad to be home?” Gwyn asked, and Kieran stilled then, straightening up and kneeling, his eyes searching Mark’s face.

Mark had to stretch for an answer. Was he happy to be home? He was happy to his siblings again, though his heart broke when he thought about missing five years of their lives that he’d never get back. He was glad to be back among the trappings of his old life; his bedroom and all his belongings had remained near enough untouched, with the bedside clock frozen at the time the batteries had died in one lost year.  But it wasn’t the same. Helen and his father were gone, and no one could fill that gap. The years with the Hunt had marked him in their own way, setting him apart from his family; he saw it in the way Tavvy had looked at him when they were reintroduced, in how Drusilla’s answers come slower and more cautiously now, how Arthur had looked at him as though he saw someone else in his place.

And he couldn’t have Gwyn and Kieran there…

“Home can be a person too,” was all he said, but it was enough for Kieran. He pitched forward again to press warm kisses over each of the new runes, leaving reddening skin in his wake.

Gwyn cupped Mark’s jaw and turned his head, kissing him. His mouth was hot and desperate, teeth grazing against Mark’s lower lip.

“How long do we have you for?” Gwyn whispered, dotting Mark’s jaw line with kisses.

“All night,” Mark said, as Kieran trailed lower, towards his waist and hips, “Longer, if you want it.”

Kieran gripped Mark’s hips and pulled him forward and out of Gwyn’s grip towards the edge of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. He pulled at the fastenings of Mark’s trousers, only pausing when Mark tipped his head up to kiss him.

“Only the night?” Kieran murmured against Mark’s mouth when they broke apart, “Two weeks here, away from home, and we only have you for the night?”

He didn’t let Mark answer before he leant down again, stripping Mark of the rest of his clothes. Mark twitched when he felt Gwyn press his forehead against his spine, breathing warm and faint against Mark’s back. Kieran was between his legs, and the way he was using his mouth and tongue was making heat pool in Mark’s stomach and rise up in his cheeks. Gwyn was pressed up against his back, the closeness being enough for him, and Mark tangled his hands into Kieran’s dark hair, holding fast to him and his breathing quickened.

As long as he was here, Mark could try and block it out: unsolved murders, the Clave’s whispers, the pain of new runes, the feeling that he was an outsider in his own family. He could try to forget it because he was with _them_ , and not even the Unseelie Court revelling outside the door could draw them away.


	5. Ni all neb wasanaethu dau arglwydd

**Day Two (300 hours remaining)**

“You don’t want to eavesdrop on Malcolm’s visit?” Julian asked, handing Tavvy another dish to dry.

“No,” Tavvy said, shaking out the towel, “Ty’s around and he always makes goo-goo eyes at him.”

“Ty doesn’t make goo-goo eyes at anyone.”

“He does at Malcolm!” Tavvy set the plate down hard enough that the sound reverberated through the kitchen, “He does. You’ll see.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Julian said, flicking the soapy water off of his hands. The idea of Tiberius crushing on Malcolm, of all people, was strange.

Tavvy picked the last of the dishes out of the sink and towelled it dry, his face lost in his thoughts. Julian scooped up a handful of soap bubbles and dropped it on top of Tavvy’s head; they slid downwards, leaving a trail of rainbow suds down his brother’s dark hair. Tavvy reached up to pet the bubbles away and left the dish and towel on the side. He grabbed up bubbles from the sink and flung them at Julian, but they only dribbled down Julian’s shirt front.

“Nice try,” Julian said affectionately. He pinched Tavvy’s upper arm, “What happened to the strength you used to use to throw potato around the room?”

“I don’t hate bubbles,” Tavvy said, pinching Julian’s wrist right back, “You don’t do potatoes well.”

“Too far, Tavvy,” Julian said, catching Tavvy around the waist and lifting him off his feet. With no small amount of effort, he managed to tip Tavvy upside down. Tavvy cackled, “Apologise at once!”

“Not lying, not lying!” Tavvy chanted, squirming against Julian’s hold. His head butted against his brother’s knee.

“Fibber,” Julian teased. He allowed Tavvy to flip himself over and back onto his feet.

Pain shot up his arm, spreading from the slash on his palm and burning up to his shoulder, stretching out into his chest. His arm seized and twisted as if reaching for something on his back and only one thought flooded his mind: _Mark._

“Jules!” Tavvy grabbed for him as he staggered to the sink, plunging his burning hand into the washing up water, pinning his arm in place as it fought against him. Tavvy hung off his elbow, “What’s wrong?!”

Sweat beaded on Julian’s forehead and he couldn’t smother down a groan of pain. It felt like there were tiny hooks in every muscle and vein, trying to pull him away and out of the Institute. Tavvy was pulling on his arm, trying to get a look and see what was causing him pain. The water in the sink was blooming red.

“I’ll be fine,” he gasped out, even as his knees buckled and his forehead knocked against the counter. His hands splattered red water across the kitchen floor and Tavvy flinched away from him before he bolted from the kitchen.

The cut across Julian’s palm had split open again and blood poured out down his wrist. Julian scrubbed at it and it smeared over his other hand, watery and red. It couldn’t all be his, surely…

The yanking pain crept up his neck and swallowed him up, dragging him down—

“…Julian?” Someone was shaking his shoulder. Someone with broad hands and a familiar voice touched with a London accent, “You coming round?”

Julian pushed himself to sit up and lean against the counter behind him. The pain had slid away, replaced by a prickling discomfort and the wobbliness that illness leaves behind. Uncle Arthur was crouched next to him, Tavvy hovering at his side with a teary face.

“I thought you were talking to Malcolm,” he said, reaching up to grip the counter and pull himself back up.

“He’s always running a bit late,” Arthur said, and he straightened, stele in hand, “And I think my nephew having a funny turn in the kitchen is more important. Let me see your hand.”

“No, it’s fine,” Julian said, tucking his hand behind his back. Something, maybe hurt, flickered across Arthur’s face; he thought Julian didn’t trust him. Julian couldn’t tell him that healing runes didn’t work on this cut. He knew; he’d tried them. It would tip off that it was no ordinary injury, “It’s just a scratch.”

“That’s a lot of blood, Julian,” Arthur said, looking down at the spattered kitchen floor. The stele was turned over in his hand. Tavvy sniffed and scrubbed on arm under his nose.

“It’s looks worse than it is,” Julian said, turning to tap on to rinse the blood from his hand and arm. The cut was already closed again, though it looked raw and new. Overhead, the sound of a bell rang through the Institute, “That will be Malcolm.”

“I’ll go,” Arthur said. He tucked his stele away and turned to Tavvy, squashing his nephew’s cheeks between his hands and drawing out a smile on that teary face, “You can help Julian clean the kitchen up, can’t you? Make sure he does it right?” Tavvy nodded and Arthur ruffled his hair, “That’s a good boy.”

Julian rooted under the sink to fetch the bleach to scrub away the blood from the floor. Tavvy watched Arthur leave before he squatted down next to Julian, trying to sneak a look at his hand.

“What happened?” Tavvy asked softly, holding on to the bottle that Julian gave him, “Before.”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Julian said, filling a bowl with warm water. “I’m OK, see?” He waved his hand down in front of Tavvy’s face, “I must have scratched it on a knife when I was washing up. You went to get Uncle Arthur, yeah?” Tavvy nodded, “That was good thinking.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” Tavvy said and he handed the bottle to Julian. There were hints of wobbling around his bottom lip, “You wouldn’t stop yelling.”

Julian left the bowl of water and bleach on the side. Tavvy’s face was about the crease with crying again and he couldn’t stand that.

“I know it must have been scary,” he said and he found himself drawing on all his memories of how his father had spoken to him when he was Tavvy’s age, “But you did the right thing, getting Uncle Arthur. I don’t think Ty or Livvy would have been able to help, and Dru might be too small to sit on me if she had to.”

Tavvy’s nose wrinkled, “He doesn’t care about you.”

“Who? Ty?”

Tavvy nodded again and something tightened in Julian’s throat, “Of course he does. He just can’t show it like you do.” He dropped the washcloth into the bowl before stooping down to the bloody patches on the floor, “Let’s get this cleaned up, then we’ll see what Malcolm has to say.”

He scrubbed the blood away off of the floor, the stink of bleach filling the kitchen, rinsing the cloth off when it started to turn coppery. Tavvy hovered by him, dictating when he’d missed some. There were drops up along the cupboard doors and tucking into the crack between cupboard and floor. When the water turns pink and dirty, he tipped it down the drain and left the filthy cloth to soak in a mix of bleach and water.

“Right,” he said, “Time to see what Malcolm has to say.”

Tavvy peeled away from his side to wander up the stairs, craving the company of Drusilla. Julian had rubbed any of the blood off of his brother’s hands using the soft, sweet smelling hand soap by the kitchen sink before they’d left the kitchen, with the guilt of worrying his little brother bursting in his chest.

“Looks like someone had fun last night,” Malcolm crowed as Julian entered the living room, “It must have been _wild.”_

“Malcolm,” Arthur said, exasperated. Malcolm just grinned.

He was sitting cross legged in the armchair, his white hair tousled. Arthur was on the settee across from him, drawing an _iratze_ onto Mark’s shoulder. Something had cleaved Mark’s shoulder open, exposing raw red muscle.

“Where have you been?” Julian asked, stopping by Malcolm.

“I found him,” Malcolm said, looking a mix of smug and proud, “The mundanes kept looking at him like he was a three-headed porcupine.”

“No glamour?”

“I wasn’t that far away,” Mark said as the _iratze_ sank into his skin and his shoulder began to close, “It wasn’t worth it.” He glanced at his uncle, “Thanks for that.”

“Not a problem,” Arthur said, setting his stele down, “I don’t think I can do anything for your shirt, though.”

“It’s not mine,” Mark said stiffly, picking up the bloodied cloth from the coffee table, “It’s one of Dad’s.”

“Oh.”

Malcolm rocked back, looking up at the hairline cracks in the ceiling. Julian perched on the arm of his chair and, even here, he could smell the slight scent of magic; the sharp tang of apples, underscored by the chill of winter.

“What are the Downworlders saying?” Arthur asked, glancing at the bloody bundle in Mark’s lap.

“Oh, they’re buzzing!” Malcolm said, coming back down to earth, “Like little bees, though some aren’t so little. Obviously, everyone’s all tetchy and nervous over these murders, kind of like mice in microwaves, though why you’d let a mouse get in your microwave, I have no idea.” He looked at Julian, “You know what everyone’s saying now?”

“No,” Julian said, “I don’t keep up with Downworlder gossip.”

“You should,” Malcolm said, his tone imploring, “It’s very interesting. Anyway, everyone’s saying that the Wild Hunt might have something to do with it.”

Mark’s face darkened and his grip tightened on the fabric in his hands, “After one day?”

“Two members of the Wild Hunt show up and the Clave muddles through some murders?” Malcolm shrugged, “People might think they’re using the opportunity to do some, ah, scouting.”

“They tried to kill Kieran.” Mark leant forward and set the bundle back on the table, “And they put this in my shoulder.”

The folds of white cotton fell away. There was a dagger resting on the table, gleaming silver in the sunlight, the blade straight and sharp. Julian leant in closer to get a better look. The handle and pommel were silver and carved with designs of eyes peering out from beneath twisting vines of ivy. Malcolm was practically vibrating.

“You have the murder knife,” he whispered, “Good job, Mark Antony.” He picked the dagger up and turned it over in his hands.

“You recognise it?” Arthur asked. Malcolm hummed in the back of his throat and tapped the tip of the dagger.

“Mmhmm,” Malcolm said, “It belonged to a warlock, a while ago anyway. It was given to him when he did a favour for a faerie queen.”

“You say ‘belonged’…?” Julian said, eyeing the dagger. Someone had gone after Mark with that blade. He’d been home for only twenty four hours and, already, someone had tried to kill him.

“Yes, he died a while ago,” Malcolm said and he allowed Arthur to take the dagger from him, “He had a spell casting accident. Funny story actually; well, not ‘funny’ as in something to laugh at but ‘funny’ as in—”

“Off-topic, Malcolm,” Arthur interrupted.

“Right, sorry,” Malcolm said, “But, yeah, that’s a Downworlder knife.” He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, “That’s not very helpful, is it? I think his name was Amos, but I can’t remember what his surname was. Something to do with bells, I think. Or bridges.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Julian said, tearing his gaze away from the dagger, “Warlocks are resilient.”

“No, he died,” Malcolm said, nodding, “It was real tragic; he could have done great things.”

Sensing the oncoming melancholy, Arthur stood and picked up the bloodstained shirt. Julian moved off of the arm of the chair and took the dagger from his uncle, wandering to the window to examine it in the light. Arthur chucked Malcolm under the chin.

“I’ll get you that cup of tea,” he said, “Since you haven’t had one yet and had to watch Mark being patched up.”

“Coffee, Arthur, coffee,” Malcolm said, unfolding himself from the chair. “We’ve talked about this.”

He followed Arthur from the living room, any and all melancholy pushed to the back of his mind. Julian turned the blade of the dagger over. There was writing engraved on one side, thin and curving: _Ni all neb wasanaethu dau arglwydd._

“No man can serve two masters,” Mark said, peering down at the knife over Julian’s shoulder, “Cryptic.”

“You can read that?” Julian said, “It just looks like a jumble.”

“It’s Welsh,” Mark replied and he leant against the window sill, “It makes you want to know the story behind it, no?”

“A little,” Julian said, “No man can serve two masters…since he was a warlock, how close do you think he worked with the Clave?”

Mark shrugged, “A full name would be helpful. Or the queen he helped, at least.” He frowned, “Why Kieran, though? He has nothing to do with anyone here.”

“He has to do with _you_ ,” Julian said, glancing at the love bites that peppered Mark’s neck and collar bone, “Maybe that’s enough.” He looked at the livid mark on his palm, “Did Gwyn ap Nudd come with you?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Nothing,” Julian said, flexing his fingers closed, “I just want to talk to him. That’s all.”

 


	6. The Argument

**Day Nine (132 hours remaining.)**

“What have you done to me?”

Julian thrust his hand into Gwyn’s face, palm up to show the livid mark across his skin. Gwyn bent Julian’s wrist back, lowering his hand to examine the cut, exaggerating studiousness.

“As I recall, I cut you,” he said, “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten already. Shall I weave you a crown of rosemary to help you remember?”

“No,” Julian said, “The other day, when Mark brought that dagger home.”

“That was a week ago, little Blackthorn. You’re wasting time.” Gwyn released Julian’s fingertips and waved one hand at the sky. The world shivered and the stars above faded into the pale pink of dawn, the cityscape of Los Angeles crumbling away to be replaced by towering mountains and a wide river curving past fields. “Much better, don’t you think?”

Julian looked down to see his clothes replaced with faery armour, “Not really. Was that necessary?”

Gwyn sniffed, toying with the ring on the chain around his neck, “This is my dream.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Julian said, “What did you do to me?”

“Walk with me, little Blackthorn.”

Julian followed Gwyn along the unfamiliar river bank, picking his way over humped and twisting tree  roots. The dirt was cool beneath his bare feet and the river whispered to him as it flowed past.

“The magic that you are used to is the tame tricks of warlocks,” Gwyn said, stopping abruptly. “What the fae are capable of stems from something old and wild, as old as the world itself. We wield our magic, but it’s a temperamental magic.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

Gwyn gave Julian a sharp look, “I’m getting there.” The world seemed to shimmer again, the river shrinking to a stream and the trees lifting and spreading into tall oaks. An eagle called overhead. “Magic doesn’t like vague promises and imprecise words. I bound you to your promise on that hilltop and, in doing so, to the Hunt. If you felt pain, it was an old magic pulling at you. _I_ had nothing to do with it.”

The world began to dissolve into paper flowers and Julian stepped forward, “Take it off me; this wasn’t part of our promise.”

“Honour your part of the bargain, little Blackthorn,” Gwyn said, even as he melted into shadow, “Find this killer, before they can strike at my Kieran again. It will lift itself.”

“But I don’t—” Julian started to protest but the ground fell out from under him and he woke up with a lurch. He stared up at the ceiling, counting cracks. He felt smothered and hot and the scar on his hand throbbed.

He pushed the covers off and sat at the edge of the mattress, running a hand through his hair, before he bowed his head and hid his face in his hands, “What have I gotten myself into?”

 Downstairs, there was the sound of a door slamming and then Drusilla calling a greeting as she hurtled down the stairs. Julian snatched up his clothes and raked a comb through his hair. His shoulders felt tense and stiff, as if he’d been brawling with a pack of werewolves. He glanced at his desk but shook his head; family first, work later.

“…you ever eat anything normal?” Julian heard Jaime before he even opened the kitchen door, “How are you even still alive?”

“I don’t eat mortal food,” Mark said, barely looking up when Julian entered the room. He had a plate in front of him with grainy bread smeared in a dark gold jam, “Who knows what’s in it.”

“Your family eats it,” Jaime pointed out, “And you ate those cookies Drusilla gave you.”

“I’m not going to tell my little sister no,” Mark said. His face was a storm cloud, “That’d make me lower than an asp’s belly.”

“He loves sweet things,” Julian interrupted, “He had coffee the other day and loaded it with enough cream and sugar to stand a spoon in it.” He picked up the jar of jam, “What are you eating?”

“Rosehip jam.”

“Rosehips?” Jaime eyed the jar, “You eat flowers? Nice.”

“They are. You should try them.”

“No, thank you. I’d probably choke.”

“We can have hope.”

“Mark!”Julian started, and faltered slightly when Mark turned that storm cloud glare on him, “Was that necessary?”

“Is he?” Mark looked at Jaime, “Why are you here?”

“I am visiting?” Jaime said, picking up on the sourness brewing between Julian and Mark, “Is that not done in Faerie?”

“Gwyn does visits. What Gwyn _doesn’t_ do is exile innocent people away from their homes and their families because of who their parents are.”

“That’s what you’re angry about?” Julian said, feeling numb, “If you want to talk about Helen, don’t drag Jaime into it. He’s done nothing wrong.”

“He’s definitely done _nothing._ The Clave likes that; people who do nothing except what they want them to.” Mark dragged a nail along a groove in the table top, “Hey, maybe that’s why the Clave wanted him as a replacement.”

“I am not a replacement!” Jaime said hotly, standing so quickly his chair clattered down to the floor behind him. He leant forward across the table, eyes blazing, his face inches from Mark, “I am not here because of some Clave demand! I’m here because I want to be, which probably isn’t the case with you. Drusilla told she’s barely seen you, because you prefer to spend your evenings with Downworlders instead of your own family!”

“So I’m supposed to just forget about the people I spent five years with?” Mark’s voice was acidic, “Easy for _siblings_ , maybe, but not so easy with people you share a bed with.” He gave Julian a sharp look and Julian, recognising the barb at him, bristled.

“We never forgot you,” he said, his chest hot and tight with anger, “Never. Ty wrote every day; he never sent them because the Wild Hunt hardly has a fixed address. We didn’t forget. We didn’t know where to find you.”

“No one looked,” Mark said, standing as well, Jaime forgotten. Beneath his anger, there was a thread of hurt, “The Clave said no, and that was it. You don’t expect everyone you’ve ever known to just give up on you after you risk your life to save all of them.”

Julian threw his hands up, “What do you want me to say? There were four kids here who needed looking after! I wanted you here, Mark. But I couldn’t just take on the Clave when I was needed here. I don’t think Dad would have wanted me to just focus everything on bringing you home and not giving them my all.”

“We don’t know what he would have wanted though,” Mark said between his teeth, “You killed him!” Jaime sucked in a gasp and Mark, realising what he’d just said, instantly shrank back in shame, “Oh, Angel, Jules, I didn’t mean it.”

He reached out but Julian pulled away, closed off and furious, “Get out.”

“Jules—”

“Get out!” the words exploded out of him, tearing his throat raw and making even Jaime flinch, “Just get out and go!” Anger crept up his neck and, if he was painting, he would have painted it black and red and ugly. Mark should have known that their father’s death was somewhere he should not have gone, “Go!”

He turned his back and didn’t care when Mark slunk out of the kitchen. Jaime approached him, cautious of the shaking in his shoulders.

“Julian?” Jaime said hesitantly. He sounded almost timid, uncertain, “Will you be all right?”

“He shouldn’t have said that,” Julian said, hunching his shoulders closer, pulling away from Jaime, “He had no right. I would have done anything to bring him home. But if he wants Gwyn ap Nudd, he can have him.” He wrapped his arms around his waist and longed for Emma, “I managed five years without him; I can do five more.”

On that, he turned and left the kitchen, trying to swallow down the hollow burn that anger left behind. Outside the kitchen, he found Livia, dressed in her training clothes and sweating, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“You heard that?” he asked and she nodded.

“I was after water,” she said, “And now Mark’s gone. Bad timing? Definitely.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, “Oh, Jules, where’s he gonna go?”

 “I don’t care,” Julian said, and he hated how much it rang true, “He can go back to Wales for all I care.”

Livia frowned, “Wales?”

Before he could say anything, there was the tap of a cane on the floor boards, “Julian.”

Uncle Arthur leant heavily on his cane on the landing at the top of the stairs. His face was tired-looking but grave and Julian’s stomach sank at the thought that even he’d heard what had happened. The morning sun only reached his feet, casting the rest of him in shadows that only made the tired lines around his eyes stand out more.

“In the office, please,” he said, and he was suddenly, jarringly, like his brother, “We need to talk.”

Livia patted Julian’s shoulder sympathetically, “He’s only said that once in five years. Good luck.”

In the office, Arthur was filing something away into one of his tall cabinets, back to the door. The desk, wide as it was, was cluttered with files and reports and the odd acorn top. The only space that was kept clear was the space Andrew’s photo occupied, framed in rune-etched silver. A white tea light candle burnt in front of it, wax melting into a pool. Julian fingered the photo frame, tracing one of the runes.

He’d not realised that his uncle was still so steeped in grief.

“Your brother’s gone,” Arthur said, “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“I told him to leave,” Julian said, “He brought up Dad, and he shouldn’t have gone there.”

“No,” Arthur said, turning, “And while I don’t doubt that you’ve done an exemplary job in making sure the Institute runs smoothly, you don’t have the power to expel people from the building, least of all Mark from his own home. That power remains with me.”

Julian swallowed, “You’re going to bring him back?”

“He can come back if and when he wants to,” Arthur replied, sitting and straightening the photo of his brother, “Though his pride might keep him away for a while.”

Julian scrunched his nose, “His pride has fuck all to do with it.”

Arthur sighed and rubbed at his forehead. There was more grey in his hair now, something that Julian couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed already. “I don’t want to lecture you, Julian,” he said, “But I do think that you need to apologise. Both of you.”

“Why should I apologise?” Julian said hotly, temper flaring again, “He’s the one who made it worse. If he’d just learnt to keep his mouth shut, I wouldn’t have said that to him!”

“And what did he say?”

“He brought up Dad,” Julian swallowed, “And he said that we’d replaced him with Jaime, at behest of the Clave.” His fingers curled up in his pockets, “He doesn’t know anything.”

“So he’s angry,” Arthur said, leaning back in his chair, “He’s lost five years here, he thinks his family doesn’t need him anymore.” He made a small gesture, “He feels like he doesn’t belong among his own people. I can understand it.”

Julian wanted to ask how it was that his uncle could understand Mark’s anger more than his own, but Arthur reached forward to straighten the photo frame and it was that small gesture that made him reconsider. A leg injury that never healed, ears that rattled with tinnitus and unable to move past his grief. His uncle was hardly the type of man that the Clave appreciated; of course he’d understand Mark feeling like an outsider.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level, “If he doesn’t know anything, he shouldn’t say anything. I haven’t said anything about the Wild Hunt.”

“I know,” Arthur said, and he didn’t even raise an eyebrow as Julian turned for the door again, “But take it from an old man; if anything happens to Mark, you will regret that your last words to him were for him to get out.”

“You think something will happen to him?”

“Something already has.”

Julian paused at the door, “Do you regret what your last words were? To Dad, I mean.”

Arthur frowned down at the desk top for a moment before looking back up at Julian with wet eyes, “You know, I don’t even remember them. And I don’t really know if that’s somehow worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard to write. I don't even know why. Anyway, I wanted to update before I went on holiday. I'm off to Denmark for a bit to navigate their metro system, walk around a strange city on my own and eat salted herring; see you on the other side.


	7. An Invitation

**Day Nine (129 hours remaining)**

"So you just yelled at him?" Tiberius said, dragging one of the practice mats over, "You don't do that."

"I was angry," Julian said. He pulled on his fingerless gloves, flexing so the fabric stretched over his knuckles, "You know how it gets."

Tiberius shook his head, "You don't do that.  _You_ don't."

"I do," Julian said, "I've shouted before. Or do you mean I don't shout you guys?"

"Mmhmm."

"You all know what not to say," he said, as Tiberius took up position opposite him, "I get frustrated; I don't get angry."

"They're not the same thing?"

"No," Julian said, "They're not. You ready?" Tiberius nodded, "All right."

Tiberius parried the first hit, rolling to the side and sweeping Julian's legs out from under him in a low kick. Already on his feet, Tiberius danced out of the way when Julian moved to retaliate. They continued this for two hours and everything about Mark was washed away by the burn in Julian's muscles, the itch of sweat down his neck and under his hair. Despite his refusal of runes, Tiberius moved just as fast as any of his family members, and he used that speed to make up for his lack of agility.

"Are you going to apologise?" Tiberius said between ragged breaths, "Or wait for him to come to you?"

He struck out in a kick and Julian managed to catch hold of his leg, using it as leverage to send his brother toppling down onto the mat. Tiberius sprawled on his back and Julian dropped his ankle. He pushed some of his sweat damp hair from his face and retrieved his water bottle.

"I don't know," he said, wiping some water across his forehead, "I don't know. What do you think?"

Tiberius scrunched his face up, "You were both wrong." He sat up, "You should both apologise."

"You might be right."

The door swung open with a bang and Emma barged in, her eyes frantic. She bypassed Tiberius completely and gripped Julian's shoulders, shaking him slightly.

"Did you really send Mark away?" she asked.

"Yes?" Julian said, uncertain whether the slight edge of hysteria in her voice was because she was getting angry or because she was indulging in mock-fury, "Why?"

"You should have been happy to have him back," Emma said, throwing up her hands, "You've spent long enough pining for him! Do you know what I would give to have my family back?"

"I'm sorry," Julian said, ice entering his voice, "But last time I checked, throwing my father's death in my face gave me an excellent reason to be angry."

"He probably didn't want to be here anyway," Tiberius said quietly, picking at a loose thread in his shirt. "He was never here."

"But he came home," Emma said, "He came home and you could have kept him and instead you threw him out."

"Don't tell me how I should react to things," Julian said hotly, "I don't tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel. If I did, you wouldn't have played Cameron around so much."

"One, completely irrelevant," Emma said, holding up two fingers, "And two, my love life is none of your business."

"And my relationship with my brother is none of yours," Julian said, ignoring the confused look that was blooming across Tiberius's face, "I get you're concerned but, really, I can handle it." He scratched at the back of his neck, "If he wants to come back, he can." He glanced at Tiberius, "I'll apologise for shouting, and he can apologise for being a dickhead."

That earned him the barest of smiles from Tiberius but did little to chase away the anger that remained on Emma's face. Julian offered a hand to Tiberius and pulled him back to his feet. Tiberius glanced at Emma before he leant in close.

"She should say sorry to you as well," he whispered as Emma retrieved her throwing knives. Julian shrugged.

"She'll come round, don't worry about it," Julian said, sensing that his sparring with Tiberius wouldn't start again today.

Tiberius just cast another sour glance at Emma before he left the training room, probably to seek out his twin. Julian set down his water bottle and approached Emma, cautious of the knives, reaching out to trace on her back.

_Are you OK?_

She shook her head, "I just don't get you. Like, you were angry and I know that but before you've always been angrier at yourself over… _that._ Why only yell at Mark, when you've spent so long wanting him back?"

"Because he used it as a weapon in a stupid, petty argument," Julian said. He wanted to sigh and curl up somewhere dark, like he had when he was little, "With no idea about how I might have felt about it, or how I might have wished things had been different."

"Ah, Jules," Emma said, frustration dissipated, knives dropped, "You've got to tell  _him_ that, not me."

"Which means finding him," Julian said, "If only I knew where the Unseelie kept their court."

"Unseelie Court?" Emma's expression turned suspicious, "And he'd be there…why?"

"I think that's where Gwyn ap Nudd has set up while he's here. If Mark's gone anywhere, he'll have gone to him."

"Well, good luck finding them," Emma said, "We don't have an sort of list or database on entrances to the Unseelie court, and no one gets into Faerie just by wishing it."

"Then I'll have to wait. I have enough coffee."

Emma snorted, "You already drink too much coffee. Break your paints out, do a self portrait, tattoo yourself. Save some coffee for the rest of us."

"I could finish that painting of you," Julian offered but Emma shook her head.

"No, I have to do these," she said, pointing at the knives, "Pretend I'm throwing them at my enemies and all that. Paint something nice. Some flowers. A pancake."

Making his way back downstairs, Julian could hear the sound of voices in the foyer. He peered over the banister to see Drusilla in the hall, Tavvy swinging from her hand. She was talking to a faery woman with skin that glowed as gold as the moon, a heavy moss cloak draped over her shoulders and her hair trailing behind her. A pair of horns pushed back and away from her face, clawing like branches.

"Jules," Drusilla said, her eyes brightening with relief when she saw him. She tightened her hold on Tavvy's hand, "We were talking about you."

"Everything all right?" Julian asked, standing by his sister but addressing the faery more than her, "Can we help?"

"Your sister let me in," the faery said, and her voice was like a frog croaking, "Such a nice girl. I bring you a message." She held out a curled sheaf of bark, worn down as thin as paper, "Delivered for the queen herself."

"Mab?" Julian said, taking the bark, "Not for Uncle Arthur?"

The faery cocked her head, "If it were for him, I would have given it to him, would I not?" She bowed her head to Drusilla, "Well met, Drusilla Blackthorn."

She turned on her heel, bare and muddied with sticky black, and left the Institute, her shoulders hunched in discomfort. Drusilla watched her go with narrowed eyes before focussing on the bark in Julian's hand.

"What is it, Jules?" she asked, wrapping her arm around Tavvy's shoulders, "Is she angry? Is it about Mark?"

"No, it's not bad," Julian said absently, scanning the thin writing on the bark, "It's an invite. She wants to see me."

"Take Emma with you," Drusilla said quickly, "So you don't get hurt."

"Can't do that, Dru; bad manners. If a faery invites one person, it's just for that one person. I'll be all right. I think she just wants to talk."

Drusilla smoothed down Tavvy's curls, "I like faeries and all but, Jules, they never just want to talk. Never."

"I'll be fine," Julian repeated, "I just need to grab a couple of things and I'll go. Tell Uncle Arthur for me, won't you?"

After a moment of hesitation, Drusilla nodded. Julian rolled up the bark again and stuck it in his belt before he headed back up to his room to fetch his stele. The clues he'd gathered sat on his desk, a reminder of his promise to the queen and his bargain with Gwyn ap Nudd. He briefly touched the sword that resembled a seraph blade. He didn't trust Mab, not entirely, but there was a sense of respect there; she had proven invaluable in smoothing over the resentment and anger of the resident Folk of Los Angeles, and Julian had always ensured that the Unseelie Court was left alone entirely by any passing Shadowhunters.

Even with evidence implicating the Clave in the murders, she wouldn't want to put that fragile relationship at risk, would she?

Julian chewed on his lip in indecisiveness before opening his desk drawer and retrieving the ring of iron that he'd been given when he was ten. His father's advice from years earlier rang in his ears:  _a faery shouldn't hurt you unless you hurt them first, Jules, but you should always_ _ **always**_ _be prepared; it's always hard to know what offends a faery._


	8. A Talk and the Faery Knight

Faerie, contrary to the belief of the Nephilim, was not an extensive realm of entirely one land; it was a number of realms that had all been lumped under one banner by Shadowhunters who never bothered to wonder. There was Annwn, Gwyn's realm, and the Land Under The Hills that was the realm of the Unseelie Court.

And then there was the Summer Country, the lands of the Seelie Court, where Kieran had been born.

Kieran looked up at the endless disc of blue sky that stretched overhead, the sun warm against his face. The sound of insects filled the air and rang out from the long, sweet summer grass but whenever he moved to catch one, it flickered between his fingers and was gone. The Summer Country was where he came to be alone. However, since Mark, it had become a solace for just the two of them, when Mark had had enough of the Hunt.

"Somehow, you always manage to find me," Kieran said, not turning around form his watch of a grasshopper that shone like emeralds.

"Maybe this place is smaller than you think," Mark said, squatting alongside him, "Or you've gotten predictable."

"Both perhaps." The grasshopper sprang away and Kieran turned to Mark, "Why do you come today? I thought you'd be at home, helping your family." He touched Mark's shoulder, "You're sure you're healed?"

"You ask me every day," Mark said with a weak smile, "An iratze is a powerful thing."

Kieran studied the other's face. There was a harrowed, regretful look to him that piqued Kieran's concern.

"Someone has hurt you?" he asked.

"No. This time it's my fault."

Kieran cocked his head to the side, "You haven't told Gwyn?"

"I can't find him. I think he's avoiding the court; you know how he hates to be second to anyone."

"True," Kieran said. He stretched and groaned when his spine popped, "Now, tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

"No, I'll have to do it," Mark said, "I just need to talk."

"Talk away. I am listening."

"My brother kicked me out." Mark flopped down onto the grass beside Kieran, "And before you say anything he had a reason. I said something so awful to him."

"Was it awful, though?" Kieran said, "Or was he just being emotional?" He saw the look on Mark's face – slightly hurt, irritated that Kieran dismissed his brother as just emotional – and carried on, "It may have been hurtful but, at the same time, what you said may not have been inherently evil."

"I said he killed our father."

"And did he?"

"If I said it was complicated," Mark said, "And said it could be argued either way."

"Ah, Dark War. I missed that, dealing with sluagh," Kieran said, "What would you have me say?"

"Well, I don't think I can ask your advice. You don't have brothers."

"And Gwyn's brother is an actual saint." Kieran nodded, "I, and I know being siblingless makes my opinion obsolete, believe that you should do what you think is right and honourable by your family."

"I should say sorry for hurting him then," Mark said, "You didn't see his face."

"I don't need to; I can imagine it," Kieran said, "Enough talking about this. I have two things for you."

"Good things?"

"I should hope one is good. The other is more intriguing." Kieran fingered the fine silver chain around his neck, "Which do you want to hear first?"

"The good," Mark replied, "I'll get distracted if you tell me the interesting one first."

Kieran lifted the chain off from around his neck. A silver disc no bigger than a coin flashed in the sun, lines etched into the surface resembling the pattern of an iris. "For you."

"Your favour?" Mark asked, catching hold of the small disc and turning it over in his fingers, "Is this your eye?"

"You gave Gwyn your family ring. He gave me the wolf's jawbone from a long ago Hunt. I thought it proper to give you something."

"I don't have anything for you," Mark said apologetically, rubbing his thumb over the disc, "You should have dropped a hint."

"And then where would the surprise be?" Kieran said, taking the chain and fastening it around Mark's neck, "Wait until our world is in less peril and give me an interesting rock; anything will be perfect, if it is from you."

Mark's face softened and it was like watching the clouds part to let the sun through. Kieran loved that expression; the one of quiet contentment, of gentle affection and a show of comfort. He moved so he was straddling Kieran's lap, his chin on Kieran's shoulder and arms around his ribs. Kieran wrapped his arms around Mark's waist to hold him close. The sun quickly sank, the cerulean sky dipping to a dusky purple, and the land shifted; an oak tree sprouted up with thick branches overhead and a broad river sliced through the grass, a white ribbon of water cutting through the Summer Country.

"Sap," Mark said, "This is more like Annwn."

"Annwn is home. It was not always the case, but things change." Kieran turned his head to kiss against the crook of Mark's neck, "And you remind me of home."

"Mm. So what's this interesting thing you have to tell me?"

"Well, while you've been playing house with your family, Gwyn and I have been doing some investigations of our own," Kieran said, "And we have found a few things about our host." He traced up the line of Mark's spine, "She has a knight, her brother, but he's never around."

"That's not very interesting, Kieran."

"Ah ah, let me finish," Kieran said, pushing Mark away from him slightly, "He came back last night, bloodied, with a Shadowhunter's gear."

"You think he killed a Nephilim?" Mark asked, alarmed.

"I at least believe he stole from one," Kieran said, "Gwyn is looking for a corpse; if there is one, it needs to be found before the Nephilim can use it against all of us."

"Anything else?"

"There is to be a tithe soon. The solitary want protection, and believe being bound to the Unseelie Court will provide it."

"A tithe?" Mark looked puzzled, "It's entirely the wrong time of year."

"These are extreme circumstances. Besides, the Unseelie Court is never one for tradition; a tithe doesn't have to be performed at Samhain."

Mark frowned, "A tithe at the wrong time of year…that feels more like a distraction than any protective measure."

"A distraction for whatever Ailill is plotting with that gear?" Kieran ran his hands up over Mark's ribs, "Clever."

Realisation dawned on Mark's face and he pulled away from Kieran, standing and grasping at Kieran's hands.

"My family," he said, "My family are Nephilim. If he's planning anything to do with them, or taking gear, I need to warn them." He leant to kiss against Kieran's knuckles, "No offence, but I know how faeries treat mortals. If there's a chance they might be in danger, I need to warn them."

"Then go," Kieran said, standing as well. The leaves brushed against his brow, "Do what you think is honourable."

"And you?"

Kieran lifted his chin, "I shall speak to your brother."

* * *

The entrance to the Unseelie Court was found in a pile of rocks on the beach, far from the Institute. Julian had been here once, with Cameron, to return something stolen by a courtier from the Seelie Court. That had been three years ago; all other interactions with the Unseelie fae had been at the Institute, or in alien places far from Los Angeles.

What he hadn't been expecting was the horse.

It stood in front of the entrance, tail black and trailing in the damp sand. It wasn't what Julian would think of as a proud animal; it hung its head low, with a stringy mane and eyes that were as dark and endless as the night sky. He stopped in his tracks, boots covered in grainy beach sand, and the pair of them watched each other.

"I hoped he would give you pause. I need to speak with you, away from the Court's ears."

The Hunter clambered down the rocks, disturbing one and sending it tumbling down into the Unseelie Court. One eye was silver, the other as black as oil. He ran one hand down the horse's neck and the other fingered the handle of one of the daggers at his belt.

"I am Kieran," he said, "Of the Wild Hunt. Mark has mentioned me?"

"In passing," Julian said, "You want to talk?"

Kieran nodded, "Away from here." He took hold of the horse's bridle and glanced over his shoulder, "Come. I don't know who might be listening, or following."

Julian stepped in his own footprints as Kieran walked along the beach. The horse followed and Kieran spoke it in a language that Julian didn't know.

"I never liked the sea," Kieran said, "It is far too deep, and far too cold."

Julian coughed, "Livia used to be scared of it. My mother used to say it was only a mirror of the sky. After that, Livvy was scared of the sky too."

Kieran gave him a sideways glance, "Are you mocking me?"

"No, it's just kind of silly for a member of the Wild Hunt to be afraid of big blue things." Julian gestured to the sky, "I mean, really. You spend a lot of time up there."

"I was born in a green place," Kieran said, "Of hills and valleys, and fields of flowers. The ocean was something I heard of in poems and songs." He smiled softly, "Mark likes the sea. When I first met him, it was on the Welsh coastline, wild and storming. I'd been following a sluagh throughout Ireland and Gwyn, knowing somewhere calm would have been a relief, chose the coast. I found calm in Mark."

"Did you only wait for me so you could talk about Mark?"

"No." Kieran stopped and gripped Julian's elbow, "You must not go into the Unseelie Court alone. It's not safe for mortals."

"I'm not unarmed," Julian said, fingering the iron ring on the string around his neck, "I know how to deal with faeries. Besides, if I'm hurt in their court, the queen not only loses the only reason faery murders are being investigated but she'll also bring the Clave down on her and her court. She's not that stupid."

Kieran's lip twisted, "You're not supposed to even be helping them."

"I know. The Cold Peace."

"Peace." Kieran spat on the sand, "This is an extended truce." He tightened his grip on Julian's elbow, "I do not trust the queen."

"So stay with me," Julian said, "I won't be alone, you can vouch I wasn't forced, the queen's happy, you're happy."

Kieran let go of Julian's elbow and turned to his horse, leaning against its shoulder. He stroked the animal's neck, "Go on, Oisín. You'll know when I need you again."

The horse tossed its head and vanished into the sea, its tail dragging like seaweed along the surface. Watching it go, Kieran didn't notice the shadow approaching until it was practically on top of him. He raised an arm to block the blow aimed at his head and there was a crunch like a branch beneath boots. He recoiled in pain and the figure moved to strike again. Julian bowled into him, knocking him out of the way of the blow. He pushed himself to his knees, still shielding Kieran, and reached for the knife on his belt. A backhand caught him beneath his chin and sent him toppling to the sand, stars bursting behind his eyes from the force. With Julian out of the way, the figure descended on Kieran; its movement was inhumanly fast, and even with his runes Julian struggled to see it. There was a flash and then another crunch; Kieran slumped against the sand, blood running cherry red onto the damp sand.

"My apologies, Julian Blackthorn," the figure said, "He should not have interfered."

He was a tall faery, with hair like oil and long pointed ears. His eyes were completely white and, when he smiled, he showed a mouth of translucent teeth. A club swung loosely from his fingers and, with a jolt, Julian realised he was wearing Shadowhunter gear.

"He was talking about my brother," Julian said. Kieran didn't stir.

"I know what he was talking about." The faery shouldered the club, "And very little of it had to do with your brother." He stepped forward, away from Kieran, "I am Ailill, knight of the Unseelie Court."

"Where did you get that gear?" Julian said, gripping his knife, "That's a Shadowhunter's."

"I am simply borrowing it." Ailill replied, "I am to be your escort."

He took another step forward and Julian dodged away from his hand. Ailill frowned, "You don't trust me."

Julian eyed the club, which was dripping blood onto the sand. Waves dragged it off of the beach and out to sea in a red smear. Something itching and thick crept over his skin, like the muggy oppressiveness that came before a summer storm. Only the iron felt cold.

"I need you to come with me, Julian," Ailill said, and his voice flowed like water. He extended his hand again.

The iron against Julian's chest was like a circle of ice and he focussed on that, shaking off the enchantment that encircled him. The knife flashed and Ailill flinched away, blood on his arm. He clenched his fist and something angry lit behind his eyes.

"A typical Shadowhunter," he said, "Always difficult when you don't need to be."

When he moved, he was nothing but a blur of black. Turning, Julian managed to block the blow before it came, his bones jarring from the force. He dodged the next, hopping backwards over the sand and dropped, kicking Ailill's legs from beneath him before the knight could spring away. He snatched up his knife and pinned Ailill to the sand, one hand pressed to the knight's sternum and the other holding the knife against his throat.

"What does the queen want from me?" he said, fuming, "What's so important that she'd send a knight? That you'd use enchantment to make me come?"

Ailill was unfazed, "My queen, my sister, wishes for an audience."

The iron ring seemed to throb again and Julian pressed the blade harder, "Stop with the enchantment bullshit. What's the audience for?"

"I was just told to bring you to the court," Ailill said and his gaze slid to Kieran on the sand, "Regardless of who tries to stop it."

"Did you kill him?" Julian asked, stomach twisting. Ailill shook his head and relief made Julian's limbs feel like water. He couldn't deal with the death of a Hunter, especially one he could have prevented… "Good."

"I request you remove your blade from my neck," Ailill said, eyeing the iron around Julian's neck, "It would do me no favours to bring a corpse to the court."

"Swear it," Julian said, "I'm not going to just take your word."

Ailill smiled, "I swear that my hand will not deal your death, not today or any day after."

Julian narrowed his eyes but Ailill offered nothing else. Slowly, he took the knife away from Ailill's throat and moved to Kieran's side; he cradled the faery close, holding him up and out of the waves that rolled over the beach, examining the bloody wound on the side of his head. The air reeked of copper and salt.

"I can't leave him here," he said, brushing the wet sand off of Kieran's cheek, "The tide's coming in." Kieran's breathing was soft and shallow, but steady against his palm, "Mark's going to kill me." He didn't even want to think about how Gwyn ap Nudd would react, especially if Kieran didn't wake up.

He turned to Ailill but the faery had already moved. There was a deep furrow in the sand where he had been, though any footprints he'd left were faint. Julian caught a black blur out of the corner of his eye and he had time to turn his face away before the club crunched into his skull.


	9. Goodbye Institute

**Day Ten (119 hours remaining.)**

The Institute, Mark realised, hadn't felt like home since he'd returned to it. His family had been ecstatic to see him, with the exception of Tavvy who barely remembered him, but there was a wall between them now that nothing could breach. There were gaps, gaps shaped like his sister and his father that told him nothing would be the same again. His argument with Julian would probably cement the wedge further.

He hovered outside the door to his uncle's study; he could hear Arthur muttering on the other side of the door. He felt awash with guilt.

The door swung open before he could move away and Emma stood framed in the doorway. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and she was clad in her gear, two seraph blades strapped to her back. Over her shoulder, he could see his uncle at his desk, brow furrowed.

"Mark," Emma said, slightly breathless, "Is Julian with you?"

"No, I haven't seen him," Mark said, slightly taken aback, "I thought he was with you."

Emma let out a groan of frustration, "I can't feel him. Something's  _wrong._ Livia and I are going to look for him." She glanced at Mark, "Where did you go? He might have gone looking for you, after the whole queen thing."

"I haven't seen him," Mark said, "I'll come look for him but I need to talk to my uncle first."

Arthur looked up, "Something's wrong?"

"Meet us downstairs?" Emma said, holding onto Mark's wrist. He nodded and relief washed over her face, "We'll wait."

She pushed past him and headed down the stairs. Mark, unable to look his uncle in the eye, looked down at his feet. He took a deep breath.

"The Unseelie Queen is up to something," he said, avoiding Arthur's gaze, "Her knight has a Nephilim's gear. There's an out of season tithe."

"If she is, there's nothing much we can do," Arthur said, "With the Cold Peace, we are to keep away from faerie affairs. Why else would everyone in the Institute be sworn to secrecy about you being here?"

"I didn't know they were."

"Even those not here at the moment. Everyone down to Octavian." Arthur stood and his knuckles were white on his pen, "What would you have us do about this tithe?"

"It's a distraction," Mark said quickly, "The Unseelie Court hates the Clave. This tithe would gather all the solitary fae that the court has interest in and would keep them from being suspected if they were all in one place."

"You think there will be some sort of trap set out?"

"Or something like it. Tell the others; Tibs and that Jaime Rosales and anyone else you can think of."

"And where do I tell them I learnt that from?" Arthur said, and there was an edge of worry to his voice. Looking at him, Mark could see traces of his father in his face; in the shape of his eyes, the line of his jaw and the worry that pinched between his eyebrows.

"You can lie," Mark said, "If anyone outside your little circle asks, tell them you heard it from one of your Downworlder friends."

"Another faery plot," Arthur said with a sigh. He took his glasses off to rub at his temples, "And poor Julian's all tangled up in the middle." He froze, and Mark could see the realisation dawning in his face. A chill ran up his spine as the pieces fell into place.

"They're going to use Jules," Mark said, and his mouth felt as dry as summer.

"Your bow?" Arthur said, quickly stuffing his file into the desk.

"I'll get it."

"I'll tell Emma." Arthur's face was pained, "I'm sure she'll take it well."

Mark kept his bow and quiver wrapped in his cloak under his bed. He crouched down to retrieve them, running his thumb over the carvings along the bow. He strapped the quiver to his hip and threw his cloak over his shoulders, fastening it as he hurried down the hall. His little brother needed him; his little brother had needed him for five years.

He stopped on the stairs when he saw the Nephilim gathered in the foyer. Emma and Livia flanked his uncle, Emma as tight as a coiled spring. Mark crouched down, hiding behind the banister and staying as still as possible to avoid being noticed. He didn't know these Nephilim. There were three of them: a tall woman with spiralling black curls pulled back into a puffy ponytail, and two men, one dark haired and the other pale blond. Mark gripped his bow and leant forward.

"We're placing the inhabitants of this Institute under house arrest," the woman said, "There are other Shadowhunters who'll take care of your duties."

"We haven't done anything wrong!" Emma said, her hands balled. Tension rolled off of her in waves, "You can't keep us here. Jules is out there!"

"And when he's found, we'll return him here," the woman said smoothly.

"And what are we accused of?" Arthur said, leaning on his cane. The woman looked at him with disdain.

"We have reason to believe that someone within the Institute is involved with the Downworlder murders," she said, "And if you've done nothing wrong, then surely you wouldn't object to us having a look around."

Livia turned and caught sight of Mark on the stairs. He mouthed " _Stall them"_ and she nodded. He retreated back upstairs and into his uncle's office. He yanked the desk drawer open to find the file that Arthur had been poring over. He flipped it open, scanning over the pages. Something sank in his stomach when he saw his father's name handwritten in the margins, long notes about the Endarkened and angel blood and how one of the Endarkened treated with it had started to return to their normal self before they'd died. His hands shook slightly.

The Clave could have saved the Endarkened, if they'd just tried harder. They could have saved his father.

He dragged the rest of the drawers out of the desk. In the bottom one, he found a lighter for the fireplace and a canister of lighter fluid. He stuffed the file down the front of his shirt before retrieving the lighter and fluid from the drawer.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered as he tipped fluid over the carpet. He murmured a soft curse to hasten the fire before setting the lighter to the carpet.

The fire took hold faster than he'd thought and he pulled back, stamping the flames out on his cloak and ducking out of the office. He hurried onwards to the training room, looking for his siblings.

"Mark?" Octavian pulled away from Drusilla, who'd been showing him how to hold her daggers, "Livvy said you left."

He lifted up his arms for attention and, despite his initial surprise at the open trust, Mark gave it, hefting his youngest brother up into his arms.

"We need to get out of the Institute," he said. Drusilla's eyes widened as the smell of smoke finally reached her.

"What's going on?" she said, sounding terrified. The last time such a smell had been in the Institute, it had been the day Sebastian attacked.

"It's all right," Mark said quickly, pressing Tavvy closer as he adjusted the file beneath his shirt. His bow dug into his shoulder, "Don't worry. Get downstairs, get to Uncle Arthur and Emma. I'll go find Ty."

Tavvy pulled on Mark's cloak as Drusilla slipped past, "I have to get my teddy bear."

"You need him?" Mark asked. Tavvy nodded.

"He's all I got of Dad."

"OK," Mark said, "We'll get him." He could see smoke seeping down the hall, could hear the pop of wood burning, "Which room?"

"End one."

Tavvy clung to him like a baby koala the entire way to his bedroom, barely even letting go when Mark retrieved his bear. Mark caught sight of his little brother's face in the mirror on the wall behind them; his eyes were wide, shining with tears. He pulled the folds of his cloak up, using them to cover Tavvy's face, hiding the orange glow of the flames and the smoke that crept up between the floorboards.

"Keep your nose and mouth covered, OK?" he said, "You can't breathe that stuff in."

Tavvy nodded. There was no sign of Tiberius and dread curdled in Mark's chest. There was a crash downstairs as something splintered and collapsed beneath the fire and he near enough tumbled downstairs, frantic to find Tiberius. Fire licked beneath his feet as it crept upstairs; the floor creaked and groaned beneath his weight, glowing with heat.

"Ty!" he shouted, throat raw from smoke. He was surrounded by unbelievable heat, "Tiberius!"

There was no answer. Further into the Institute, he heard a wail of pain. Tavvy buried his face against Mark's neck, stifling a sob. Mark picked his way across the burning floor, panic rising up his chest.

"Tiberius, where are you?" Smoke made his eyes sting and fear stretched his voice thin. He headed down into the foyer, Tavvy's sniffs against his neck. It was so unbearably hot.

The front door was hanging off of its hinges; through the heat and the smoke, he could see the wavering silhouettes of his family. His feet burnt when he passed through the doorway and the cool air outside was like a slap to the face. Tavvy pushed his cloak away and wriggled out of his arms.

"Mark!" Drusilla was at his side when he bent double, wheezing from smoke. He rubbed the tears from his stinging eyes as she rubbed his back, "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," Mark wheezed. He straightened, "Ty—"

"He's here," Drusilla said, biting her lip, "He doesn't look so good."

"He's OK?"

"He's alive." Drusilla glanced down, "Mark, your feet!"

"I'm fine," Mark said. He spotted Tiberius, huddled on the floor, Emma leaning over him and Livia crouched at his side. Arthur was on his knees, staring at the burning Institute in disbelief, his mouth forming words Mark couldn't hear, Tavvy pressed up against his side.

Mark pulled away from his sister to hobble to Tiberius's side. Passing his uncle he managed to catch what he was saying; Arthur was murmuring his brother's name over and over, clinging to Tavvy and rocking him slightly. Drusilla stopped to talk to him, hands light on his shoulders.

"Ty?" Mark stopped beside Emma.

The air reeked of burnt skin, and burnt hair and fabric. Livia had a water bottle in one hand, nearly empty, the cap discarded beside her. The entirety of Tiberius's back had been burnt and blistered open, pale in places and blotchy in others. He was curled in on himself, one arm covering his face.

"Ty," Livia said, lightly touching Tiberius's shoulder, avoiding the burns, "Ty, it's Mark. Everyone's here now. We're safe."

Tiberius lifted his head and Mark's stomach soured when he saw the damage that the fire had done to his brother's face.

"I had to get Dad," Tiberius said, and his voice was hoarse and dry. He pushed a slightly charred photo frame towards Mark's feet, "See."

"Can't leave him behind," Emma said with a tiny smile. She caught sight of Mark's feet, "Oh, Mark. Why don't you wear shoes?"

For a moment, she sounded so much like Julian that it was almost comical. She crouched down, stele in hand, and Cortana flashed in the light from the fire.

"We need to get away," she said as she drew the iratzes across Mark's feet, "It's not safe here. Your uncle."

They both looked to see Arthur already on his feet, though missing his cane. Tavvy clung to him with one hand and to his teddy with the other. Drusilla was at her uncle's other side.

"I'm going to take Octavian and Tiberius to Malcolm," Arthur said eventually, and he was fighting to stay level, "If you three want to look for Julian, there is nothing stopping you."

"I'm staying with Ty," Livia said fiercely, coaxing Tiberius to his feet, "I can't leave him behind."

Emma rubbed at the parabatai rune on her chest, her expression distant and worried. "Julian's a big boy now," she said, "He can look after himself for a bit."

* * *

"My life is never dull with Shadowhunters around," Malcolm said, mixing something pasty and foul-smelling in a deep bowl.

"Sorry to impose," Arthur said and Malcolm cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"You're not," he said, "It's fine. Oh, hello!"

"Tavvy's fallen asleep," Mark said, slightly taken aback by Malcolm's smile, "Drusilla's with him. Livia's managed to get the rest of Ty's shirt off and Emma is upstairs, on the phone to someone called Cameron."

"Ah, Cameron," Malcolm said with a sigh, "The sweet one. Or is Julian the sweet one? Ah, well, I gotta put your brother's skin back together."

He ducked out of the kitchen and Mark caught sight of what was in the bowl; it was a hideous, sickly shade of green. Arthur slumped against the kitchen table, glasses off, looking utterly harrowed. Overhead, Mark could hear footsteps and the dull murmur of voices in the bathroom.

"Over twenty years," Arthur said, "All gone. Twenty years your family had that Institute and now all there is to show for it is a photograph and Octavian's teddy bear." He polished his glasses on the hem of shirt and put them back on again, "And my work's gone too."

"Are you going to stay here?"

"We have nowhere else to go," Arthur said. He grimaced, "Idris and London both are just festering with bad memories."

Mark closed the kitchen door, barring it with a chair. He knew it would do little to keep Malcolm out but it would hopefully deter his siblings.

"You should drink what Malcolm gave you," Arthur said, giving a pointed look to the abandoned glass on by the sink, "For your throat."

"I know I shouldn't have," Mark said, "But I went through the drawers in your desk and I found this." He pulled the file out from under his shirt. The edges were curled and wrinkled but it was otherwise untouched, "I figured it wasn't something you wanted to fall into the hands of the Clave."

Arthur took the file from him, smoothing over the bent corners. He flipped it open to make sure that every page was still there, that nothing vital had been lost to the fire.

"Thank you, Mark," he said quietly, "I…this was a lot of work."

Mark retrieved the glass from the side and retreated from the kitchen, leaving his uncle alone. Drusilla looked up from where she was on the settee, Tavvy snuggled up alongside her with a blanket draped over him. The rounded ears of his teddy bear poked up over the edge of the blanket.

"I can't feel my legs," Drusilla said with a faint smile, "He forgets he'd gotten bigger, I think."

"Move him if you need," Mark said, and he almost winced at how hoarse he sounded next to her. Even Gwyn sounded healthier, "I bet he's out like the dead."

Drusilla pulled a face, "God, Mark, you sound terrible." There was a strangled cry of pain from Tiberius and she looked toward the stairs, "Tell me he's gonna be OK?"

"He's gonna be OK," Mark said, and believed it, "He's in good hands."

"You going to see him?"

"I think I should."

"Good. And Mark?" he paused at the foot of the stairs, "Drink your medicine. Seriously."

He swilled the glass as he made his way towards the bathroom. The contents were discoloured and he was reminded of the time Julian had chipped his front tooth on a glass when he was eight and the blood had discoloured the water red and then yellow. He sighed and pushed open the bathroom door.

Tiberius sat on the edge of the bath. There were ragged, burnt strips of cloth on the floor, the only remains of his shirt. Most of his torso was covered in the vile green paste that Malcolm had mixed up, with more of it spread up around the left side of his neck and across his cheek. Livia sat by his side, her hand squeezed in his, while Malcolm finished painting the last of the paste over the back of Tiberius's neck, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

"Done," Malcolm said, setting the bowl down, "Not quite as green as Ragnor, maybe, and it definitely smells worse. But hey, those scars will really impress the girls."

"I don't  _want_ to impress girls," Tiberius muttered.

"Ah, poor girls," Malcolm said sympathetically. He stacked the empty bowl into another one, "Leave it on for about…an hour? Bit longer? Then you can wash it off. You can walk around; I don't mind getting stuff on the furniture. It's easy to clean." Before he left, he paused next to Mark, tapping the glass with one hand, "Drink it. You'll feel better."

"How are you feeling now?" Livia asked, squeezing Tiberius's shoulder. He frowned.

"Hurts," he said. Livia almost immediately pulled away.

"I hurt you?" she said and he shook his head.

"Not you. It just…hurts."

Livia gently stroked he twin's cheek, the one the fire hadn't burnt, her expression tender, "Thanks for getting Dad out."

"It was stupid," Mark chipped in, "Really stupid."

"I'm aware," Tiberius said, standing up. He winced as the movement pulled at his burnt skin, "But I couldn't, I didn't want to leave it behind." He scowled, "It's stupid. I don't want to talk about it."

He near enough stormed out of the bathroom. Livia watched him go, teeth worrying at her lower lip; there were streaks of green paste crusting on the rim of the bath and she rubbed at one of them, digging her nail under it and flaking it off.

"He's never going to look the same again," she said quietly, "He doesn't know how to deal with that, and I don't know how to help him. Dad would know what to do. Julian would know what to do. I wish he was here." She glanced up at Mark, "Are you OK?"

"I've felt better." Mark rubbed at his throat, "I've sounded better."

Livia's smile was shaky, "I bet you wish you'd never come home, huh."

Mark didn't say anything. Instead, he swigged back the contents of the glass. It was as smooth as cream but it was unbearably bitter.


	10. Goes Unpunished

**Day ?**

Julian woke up in chains. His head felt like it was being split open from the inside and the hair on the side of his head was matted and glued down by blood. He stood and the world spun with stars; he leant against the wall, breathing heavy, and his stomach churning. They'd taken his stele and his knife, as well as his iron. Thick fetters circled his ankles and the edges of cuffs dug into his wrists, and someone had taken his boots.

He blew some hair out of his eyes before throwing his weight backward, pulling on the chains. They clattered and pulled tight but didn't budge. A small window was cut out of the rock and Julian strained to look out of it; he could see a circle of sky, dotted with pale stars. He slumped back down to the floor, his head pounding.

"I did wonder when you would wake up."

Julian gingerly touched the blood at the side of his head, "Thank the Angel you're not dead."

Kieran smiled, "Gwyn is not so terrible. You may have grown to like him."

"Of course you know about that. Mark too?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Julian groaned, cradling his head in his hands, "God, it hurts."

"Blackthorn, listen," Kieran said, pressing himself to the thin columns of stone that served as bars, "You will not be leaving this place alive."

Julian looked at him from between his fingers, "You could have waited a little before dropping that little atom bomb."

Kieran blinked, "That's not the reaction I expected." He shook his head, "Regardless, I feel I should tell you. You are to be the tithe."

"Mab's not that stupid," Julian said, feeling like he'd been punched. Her betrayal couldn't be denied, not now, but he didn't want to believe she'd be so idiotic and selfish as to bring the Clave down on her court, "The Clave—"

"Is not something she cares about," Kieran cut him off, "Or at least, she is not afraid of them. The Unseelie Court never has been. Besides that, the Unseelie Court has never been bound by your laws, and the tithe is no exception. There is no law that truly exempts the Shadowhunters from being offered to hell. They have simply had no reason to before." He stopped when he heard the clatter of hooves on stone, "I have to go. If I'm found here, I'll be expelled from the court."

"Because that's the worst thing that could happen today," Julian muttered. He moved towards the bars but the chains held him back, "You can't just leave me here!"

"And what do you think would happen if I smuggled you out?" Kieran snapped. His eyes softened when Julian's posture slumped, "I'm not abandoning you, Blackthorn. There is little I can do but perhaps Gwyn can sway the odds to your favour."

He melted away into the shadows and there was only a whisper of air and a flicker of shadow when he left. Hinges creaked and Julian recoiled back away from the bars, scrambling back towards the wall. His head throbbed and he leant against the wall behind him, closing his eyes and sucking in deep breaths to try and quell the nausea, as well as the thrumming of his nerves.

"And he lives," Ailill said, and Julian wanted to kick himself for being so stupid, "You must be feeling tender."

"It would take more than a thump to the head to kill me," Julian said, glaring, "Besides, you're the one who didn't want me dead."

Ailill just smiled but there was no warmth to his smile; there was almost no emotion behind it at all, and it chilled Julian's spine, "I don't plan on killing you. I made a promise, no?" He gestured to the ogre behind him, "Be gentle with him, won't you?"

The bars of stone cracked and crumbled beneath the ogre's fists and the chains fell away when she touched them. She was big enough to hold Julian in one arm, despite his squirming. Her horns knocked against the rocky ceiling.

"I won't be long," Ailill said, "Make sure he's bathed and ready for me when I return."

"I…wait, no!" Julian protested when the ogre just nodded. He pushed at her, aiming for the soft spot of her throat but it was guarded by heavy chains of gold and black, "I don't…I can walk, it's fine!"

He didn't want to be carried, not today. He wasn't going to be carried like a child just to be prepared for his death.

The ogre ignored his thrashing to carry him up the stairs. The pain in his head swelled and Julian slumped, feeling oddly exhausted and sick. He watched rooms go by, catching sight of burning fires and huge vats of something red and sticky.

"Big party, huh?" he groaned, moving his hands to cover his eyes. Even the low, sickly glow of the fey lights that dotted the ceiling was enough to roll his stomach.

"Our biggest," the ogre said, and Julian could tell she was smiling.

His spine thumped against something stony when he was set down and he turned to his side, breathing in through his nose and trying his best not to bring up his breakfast. A pair of spindly hands plucked at his belt and he kicked out, his eyes snapping open to glare. The faery, thin and bony, rubbed at its middle.

"Don't," Julian said, imitating Emma's most intimidating tone. The faery cocked its head and its eyes glittered.

"You cannot bathe in that," it said, "I am to help."

"If I  _have_ to do this, I can undress myself," Julian snapped, standing and turning his back, "I wasn't allowed to walk but I am doing this." He gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head, carefully avoiding the injury on the side of his head, and dropped it onto the ground. His hands shook slightly at his belt buckle and he turned to look over his shoulder to look at the two faeries, "Can you bugger off?"

The ogre's lips peeled back into a pointed smile, "We are to help."

"You could at least not look."

The pair of them looked away as one but Julian could see that they were trying not to laugh at his request. His belt buckle hit the ground, too loud to Julian's nerves, and he could feel hungry eyes crawling all over him, devouring the sight of him. He unfastened the button on his jeans and his breath caught at the footsteps behind him.

As soon as he stepped out of his jeans, the ogre seized his upper arm and dragged him backwards, towards a pool of water the colour of violets. The water closed over his head, warm and sweet tasting, and flooded his nose. It was only the ogre's hand squeezing his arm that kept him from sinking down into the blackness below. She pulled him back up and he coughed, spitting dark water out of his mouth. He shoved her hand away to grip the rocky edge of the pool.

"Here," the spindly faery said, kneeling to dip a cloth into the pool, "We shall bathe and then take you Illtyd." She pressed the cloth to the side of his head to scrub away the blood and he cried out; it was agonising, "Oh, hush."

Very slowly, the pain started to ebb away and Julian felt smothered. At the back of his mind, there was a small voice that told him that this was enchantment, that they were slowly lulling him under their control. The spindly faery sighed softly and tipped his head so it could clean the blood along his neck. Above, the ceiling glittered, studded with outcrops of amethyst.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Mab asked, her voice echoing off of the walls, "I suppose Nephilim believe all of the Unseelie palaces to be ugly."

Julian shoved the faery's hand away, glaring at Mab, "You turned on me."

"Oh, please, Julian," Mab said, "I never made you any promises. That was all you." She walked around the edge of the pool, the hem of her gown soaking up splashed water, "I did say we would honour you if you helped us." She crouched down to press her cheek against his, ignoring how wet he was, "It is a great honour to be the tithe for the court."

Julian twisted, trying to pull away from her, but Mab just held onto him tighter. She kissed his hair over where Ailill had clubbed him, ignoring any tenderness still there.

"You're so good," she said, one hand trailing along his shoulder, "You were wasted on the Clave. How good, then, that you delivered yourself into my hands the day you ignored their pathetic Cold Peace."

She stood again and said something to the ogre in a language he didn't understand. A heavy hand landed on his head and pushed him down again, water closing in over his head. Through the violet film, he saw Mab's silhouette move away and he called out, but all that escaped his mouth was a stream of silvery bubbles. The ogre twisted him so that the spindly faery could fish one of his feet out of the pool. He floundered for a moment before he managed to get his head above water.

"You're trying to drown me," he said, swiping water from his eyes. The ogre laughed.

"No, you need to be clean," she said, "We will scrub the Marks away next."

* * *

The entire room was draped in white hair. It covered the entirety of the floor, swung on the walls and hung in great drooping arcs from the ceiling; it glowed slightly. It was soft beneath Julian's bare feet and he couldn't help but stare in wonder. If he'd painted it, he'd paint it with soft lines, with undertones of blue in the corners and gold along the ceiling; he'd paint himself and the ogre as only small black figures amid the sea of white.

Illtyd himself was a tiny wizened thing, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of his hair, crouching at his spinning wheel amidst overstuffed shelves of bolts of cloth. His beard was tied close to his chin with beaded string and, when he looked up, his eyes were the dark, hard blue of sapphires.

"I wish," he said, and his voice was low and rumbling, "That you would give me more than a single day to craft for the tithe." He stood and folds of hair fell away from him, revealing bare tattooed shoulders, "Let me see him."

He stepped down, pulling a length of marked red ribbon from within the depths of all that hair. Julian watched as the faery walked over endless lengths of his own hair, as if it was completely detached from him, as if it were nothing. His head felt clogged and full of cotton.

"A bold move, to take a Nephilim," Illtyd said, looping the ribbon around Julian's torso to measure his chest, "Do they know he's gone?"

"They will," the ogre said. Illtyd chuckled and left the ribbon to do his measuring on its own, wandering to one of his many shelves.

"I'm thinking perhaps blue," he said, "To match those eyes." He pulled out a long roll of blue fabric and piled it into Julian's arms while the ribbon measured the length of his legs, "What are you thinking?"

"It's soft," Julian said, unable to think of much else. He never felt like this unless he'd been drinking, but this was something heavier. He ran a hand over the roll of fabric. He couldn't quite pin down the shade; it seemed to shift when he blinked, and it was as fine as spider's silk.

"It is my best," Illtyd said, "I only save my best for those who give their lives to the tithe."

"I'm not giving it," Julian said, pushing past the haze for a moment, "You're taking it from me."

"You will give it," Illtyd said, and the ogre nodded in agreement. He pulled down a fold of white from the shelf, "When Ailill is finished with you, you will give it gladly; you'll bare your throat and wish to slit it yourself." He examined the soft white fabric, "Yes, I think blue and white. Our lady likes them in white." Flinging the white over his shoulder, he took the roll of blue from Julian again, "To be delivered to Lord Ailill's rooms?"

"As always."

Julian blocked out the ogre and Illtyd talking; he watched as the ribbon crumpled into a red heap on the ground, the silk stark against the white of Illtyd's hair. He added to the canvas in his head a tiny spot of red and a bar of sky blue. He wished that he'd been given a canvas and a paint brush rather than a bath and a tunic to replace his bloody shirt. Emma would ask him why he was painting a white canvas with mostly white, her tone teasing, before taking his paintbrush and painting a line from his hairline to the tip of his nose. She'd probably pick the blue; whenever she picked a colour, it was always blue.

_Blue banners when the lost return_

Illtyd wound the ribbon up around his fingers, over and over into a neat circle. Red, like the Endarkened gear. Red, like the ribbons his father had twisted into his sisters' hair once upon a time. Red like blood, like his father's when he'd died, clad in red gear; red like Tiberius's, his knuckles full of glass; red like Julian's own, coating his neck and washed away by water the colour of amethysts.

_And red to call enchantment down_

The ogre grabbed his arm and hauled him back and out of the room, his feet skidding across layers upon layers of white hair. Illtyd swathed himself in his own hair and watched them go, eyes bright against the endless white.

White. Mundane women wore white when they got married. Shadowhunters wore white when loved ones died. Julian had worn white when his mother died, when his father died, when Mark had been taken away by Gwyn ap Nudd.  _Gwyn_ : Welsh, meaning 'fair, bright, white.' Tiberius had told him that once, a long time ago.

_For death and mourning the colour's white_

He felt drunk on faery magic, buzzing in his blood and dulling his mind. Will his family know what happened to him? Will Emma feel it? Did she feel it now, the dullness and quiet that came with faery enchantment? Will she be ashamed of him, knowing that he went as quietly as a whisper?

His own laugh surprised him. He laughed, because he was the first Shadowhunter to be given as a tithe, because this was going to start something massive that nothing could stop, because he didn't know how else to cope. He laughed and he didn't stop laughing, not even when the ogre left him in Ailill's chambers, the door locked and barred behind him.


	11. Before the Tithe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, you don't see anything but this chapter does have the date rape of a minor. I thought I would warn you, just in case. And the Welsh Gwyn says at the end is "stay safe", though feel free to correct me if my translation is faulty.

Ailill's sheets were like silk. Julian pressed his face into them and only watched as Ailill stripped out of the gear, rinsing bright blue blood off of his hands. They smelt like faeries but not the same smell as the Wild Hunt. It was strange.

"So that is one thing to be found tonight," Ailill said, dropping shirt and jacket to the ground. He was all long limbs and sharp lines, "Warlocks are strange creatures, are they not?"

"Malcolm's not bad." Julian buried his face into Ailill's pillows to inhale that intoxicating scent. It was the sweetness of lilies with a barely detectable hint of something old and wild, "I don't wanna talk about warlocks." He barely noticed the slur in his voice. He breathed in more of that sweet, wild smell and relaxed further into those silken sheets, "I wanna sleep."

"Oh, of course you do," Ailill said, "But you can't. You'll lose your last night on Earth for silly dreams and fancies." He sat alongside Julian, "The Seelie Court has time for such things; we do not."

"I'm not on Earth," Julian said and he could feel one of his drunken grins crossing his face, "I'm  _in_  Earth."

"Yes, I should know, shouldn't I?" One of Ailill's hands crept under the faery tunic to ghost over the skin of Julian's back, "I do live here." His thumb stroked across the ridge of Julian's shoulder blade, "You are perfect, aren't you?"

"No, I fuck up a lot."

It was then that Ailill kissed him, hand withdrawing from his back to push him down against the sheets. He settled atop Julian, long and lean and so much stronger than he looked. Julian turned his face away from Ailill's mouth; now he could smell blood, faint and metallic despite the soapy water Ailill had used to scrub it away. He felt teeth nip the tender skin over his pulse point.

"You have no idea what you're to be part of," Ailill whispered, reverent, "The world will change because of you."

Fabric tore as Ailill pulled at the tunic. Julian felt more magic wash over him as Ailill kissed a line down his now bare torso, from the hollow of his throat to his navel. His throat burnt with thirst.

"'S'not a good idea," Julian said, pushing Ailill's hands away from the hem of his jeans, "Don't." The hands returned and he pushed them away again, " _No_."

Ailill sighed and moved off of Julian again. He retrieved a blue bottle from a basket left by the door and a pair of dark crystalline glasses. Julian shrugged the torn tunic off and lay again, sheets slippery beneath his bare skin.

"For you," Ailill said, pressing one glass into Julian's hand. He sipped at his own and watched as Julian twisted the glass, watching the light dance off of the cut sides and the liquid inside, "You should drink it. It will calm your nerves."

Julian propped himself up on his elbow and swirled the liquid around in the glass. It was deep gold and it caught the light from the candles, reflecting it back in amber. His mother would have liked these; she would have said they were a bit old-fashioned and cheesy but, at the same time, they had their charm.

"I'm not nervous," he said, "I'm calm. Look how calm I am. You take care of four kids, you don't get nervous anymore." He looked up at Ailill, "Are you nervous? You're drinking."

Ailill laughed, "I am not nervous. I have done this many times."

"I bet you have." Julian looked moodily into the glass before reaching down to set it on the ground, "We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits; who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry, thirsty roots?" He grimaced, "My mom used to recite that to us when we were kids. Dad used to think she was…I dunno, jabbing at him. She wasn't. You want little kids not to eat faery food, you tell them a weird rhyme." He rubbed at his tired eyes, "Why am I telling you this?"

He longed for sleep. Maybe he'd wake up in his own bed at the Institute, all of this being a bizarre nightmare that he could chase away with cups of coffee and catering to Tavvy's breakfast demands.

His stupor was disturbed when Ailill lifted his head and pressed the edge of the glass against his teeth. Trying to turn his head away only resulted in Ailill locking one arm under his jaw.

"For your own good," Ailill said as he tipped the contents of the glass into Julian's mouth. Some of it dribbled down his chin, sliding down his neck, "For the nerves."

The liquid burnt like whiskey down his throat and pooled warm and thick in his stomach. He squirmed against Ailill's hold, even while that warmth spread to his limbs, radiating from his centre to the tips of his fingers and toes. Ailill stroked his jaw with his thumb, holding Julian close as more magic smothered him, kissing his forehead with all the tenderness of a lover.

This time when Ailill went to unfasten his jeans, Julian didn't try to stop him.

* * *

The court was sealed. Kieran pressed his cheek to the rocky wall; Gwyn was on the other side. Kieran could feel him, frantic, and it was clear that, away from his Hunt and his own court, opening the court was beyond even the great Gwyn ap Nudd. Kieran breathed a heavy sigh. He could remember a time when he could open courts himself.

"I'll get out, Gwyn," he said softly, "There's never only one entrance."

But first, he had to find Mark's brother.

He picked up his hunting knife and slipped it back into its sheath. With a heavy heart, he walked away from the former entrance, away from Gwyn. His plan had been to tell Gwyn about the tithe, tell him to go and find Mark while Kieran stayed in the court, trying to hunt down Julian. With the entrance closed, he was going to have to do this by himself.

The denizens of the Unseelie Court ignored him as he made his way through the chipped halls. His hand was tight on the handle of his knife. Being in the Unseelie court alone, without the reassurance of Gwyn's presence, only reminded him of his father; a spoilt, tempestuous prince of some long dead Unseelie court who'd always taken what he'd wanted without consideration for others, the memory of him had soured any interactions with Unseelie faeries that Kieran had.

He stopped in the kitchens and the twisted faery bent over one of the cooking pots offered him a thin smile. They doled out a bowl of their red soup and pressed it into Kieran's hand.

"For our fine prince," they said.

Kieran's stomach curled at the thick, coppery stink of the soup, "I'm not your prince. Not yours, not anyone's."

"You cannot deny your heritage," the faery said coolly, covering the pot, "If you are looking for the queen or Ailill, you shall not find them here."

"Where can I find them?" Kieran said, setting the bowl down and grasping the faery's shoulder, "I need to find them."

"Ailill be in his private rooms," the faery said, "The queen in her halls."

"And the boy? For the tithe?"

The faery sneered, "Ailill works them over before every tithe."

Kieran made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat, "I need to go."

The floors were cold and rough beneath his bare feet, the steps to Ailill's private rooms slippery. Kieran knew the way well; Mab had given them over to Gwyn for however long he wanted to linger in her court. It meant not having to spend hours looking for Julian and he was grateful for that. He didn't know when Mab wanted her tithe; Julian might not have those hours left.

He skidded into the door with enough force to rattle it. His shoulder felt bruised and tender but the door didn't open and he couldn't hear footsteps on the other side. Listening, he could hear moans and the creaking of wood. He pulled down on the handle and was surprised when it gave, the door opening slowly on its black hinges. Without the door between them, it became clear that those moans were not coming from Ailill.

He stepped into the room to see the reflection of Ailill's bare back in the long mirror on the far side, slender and pale, sheets tangling around him. The moaning, at least, was slowing. Kieran kept his footsteps as quiet as possible as he approached, rounding the corner as slowly as he could.

"I expected Illtyd," Ailill said, completely unperturbed about the interruption, "Only he enters without knocking." He kissed the back of Julian's head before moving off of him, "You need those clothes, don't you?"

Kieran looked down at Julian and saw stretches of bare skin, bruising bite marks on his shoulders and neck, blue eyes glazed over from too much magic. Kieran couldn't believe that he had much of an idea about what he'd been doing. He scowled.

"He is  _seventeen_ ," he snapped.

Julian didn't react but Ailill cocked an eyebrow, "That should be no concern to you."

Kieran felt his lip curl in disgust, "And he is drunk on magic. That is a concern to me."

"What are you accusing me of, little prince?"

"You forced him."

Ailill just laughed. He pulled away from Julian and sat up, shoulders shaking with laughter. His laugh was rough and wheezing, as if the act of it physically pained him. Kieran's stomach turned inside out; his father laughed the same way.

"You haven't been forced, have you Julian?" Ailill cooed, a mockery of a lover's tone. He stroked Julian's cheek, "Have I pinned you down and forced you? Have I ignored you when you screamed no and tried to push me away?"

Julian made no verbal reply. He grasped at Ailill's hand, turning it over to kiss the skin of his wrist, as shy as the first signs of spring. He looked at Ailill as if he were God himself. That expression had been written across the faces of human thralls for centuries. Kieran had spent his early years being rocked in the arms of such thralls, kissed and cuddled by humans who worshipped the ground his mother walked on.

"You made it so he couldn't say no," Kieran said. He extended one hand, "Allow me to take him home. You don't understand what this will do."

"I do not fear the Clave," Ailill said, looking down at Julian with something like affection, "Nor do I feel particularly compelled to give my blue eyed boy to you." Julian beamed and he looked achingly like Mark.

"It's not the Clave you should fear."

"And who should I fear?"

"Gwyn," Kieran said. Ailill, already bored with him, turned his attention back to Julian, moving to carry on kissing him, even as Julian arched away, "To upset Mark, which this  _will_ , would upset Gwyn."

Julian looked over to Kieran and his eyes focussed on him, "I know you."

Ailill huffed, "You don't need to know him. You don't need to remember him." He glared at Kieran, anger simmering in his black eyes, "He has no business here any longer."

He flicked his wrist and, with an all mighty crack, the floor split beneath Kieran's feet, sending him plummeting down into thick darkness. Stars moved past his eyes, and Kieran heard Julian call his name before the floor closed up over his head again and he was hurtling through the space between spaces.

He was spat on onto the beach, sand filling his mouth. His insides felt squeezed and bruised and even the beach sand felt like a comfort.

"Kieran!" Gwyn cried and Kieran heard the clatter of rocks as his leader came down, "I thought I'd lost you!"

Kieran was hauled up out of the sand and up against Gwyn's chest, his head tucked under Gwyn's chin. He squirmed against Gwyn's hold; grateful as he was for Gwyn's concern, there was no time for this.

"Mark's brother is in there," he said, dropping down onto the sand and swaying slightly. "They're going to kill him. Tonight, at the tithe."

Gwyn's eyes narrowed, "You did not bring him with you?"

"I tried! Ailill doesn't let go so easily." Kieran ran a hand through his hair, a tic he'd picked up from Mark, "And what did you find?"

"Nothing at all," Gwyn said, "I'm a little disappointed."

Kieran looked out across the sea, longing for home, for Oisín and the endlessness of Annwn. He wished he'd never come. Being somewhere so close to the Unseelie Court made memories of his father resurface, leaking from where he'd locked them away like smoke.

"We must tell Mark," Gwyn said softly and Kieran nodded.

"You go," he said, "I'll get back into the court. Do what I can to save him, or at least delay this tithe."

"How will you get in?"

Kieran turned back to Gwyn to see concern written over the other's face. He sighed, "When my father's court held a tithe, the court was open from sunset to sunrise, to allow to solitary folk to gather. I see no reason this one will be any different." He rubbed at his arm, squashing down the goosebumps that rose up on his skin, "I'll go in then, no different to any other faery." He held up a hand when Gwyn opened his mouth to object, "And, no, you can't. You'd stand out too much. I, at least, can look Unseelie."

"You know them better than I," Gwyn said. He pushed Kieran's hair away from his brow to kiss his forehead, " _Byddwch yn ddiogel."_

"I will," Kieran said, "You should go to Mark. And hurry back." He glanced at the setting sun, "I don't know how much longer Julian Blackthorn has."


	12. We Pay A Tithe To Hell

Mark was disturbed by the hammering on Malcolm's front door. He heard Tiberius groan, felt his brother's forehead at his back, and buried his face into the soft blankets that Malcolm had piled onto his sofa bed for them.

"Time is it?" Tiberius asked groggily, "Is it late?"

"Not as late as you think," Mark said, glancing out of the window to see the purple sky, "You slept for a long time."

He listened as Malcolm opened the door, listened to the murmur of voices and then the thud of feet against the wooden floors. He pushed the blankets away, leaving Tiberius to sprawl out across the sofa bed. Tiberius absently scratched at his burn scars and watched Mark with sleepy grey eyes as he opened the door to peer into the hallway.

"You can't go in there!" Drusilla was saying, "Ty's asleep, he got hurt, he needs to rest."

"I am not here for that one."

Gwyn. Mark turned back to Tiberius and fetched his bow and quiver from the floor, "I'll go and see what he wants. You still tired?"

Tiberius shook his head, "I'm fine."

Mark left the door open a crack as he headed towards Gwyn. There was a flare of irritation for the fact that Gwyn, however unknowingly, had woken Ty but there was also a strong thread of worry; Gwyn hadn't sought him out in Los Angeles before now.

"Mark!" Drusilla said when he entered the kitchen, latching onto his hand. She pointed to Gwyn, "Has he come to take you?"

"He shouldn't have," Mark said, "What's wrong?"

Gwyn was clad in his armour, his long bow at his back, bracer firmly in place. Malcolm looked both perplexed and amazed by him.

" _March."_ Gwyn grabbed hold of Mark's shoulders, disregarding Dru, "You need to come with me."

Mark's stomach sank, "I can't. And you said I could choose." He squeezed Drusilla's hand, "They need me here now."

"Not like that," Gwyn said, "It's about your brother."

"You know where Jules is?" Drusilla said and she grabbed at Gwyn's arm with her free hand, her nails digging into his skin, "Where is he? Is he OK?!"

"He lives. He's in the Unseelie Court."

"Oh, that's not good," Malcolm said, "I should tell Arthur. Should I tell him? Maybe not. He didn't have a fun time with the Unseelie Court; it might be bad for him."

He left to find Arthur and Gwyn brushed Drusilla's hand away from his arm. She looked from Gwyn to Mark, her face pulled tight with worry.

"He should have left there already," Drusilla said, "He only went to see the queen." She made a frustrated noise and pulled away from Mark, "I told him not to go alone. I told him!"

Mark took a deep breath, pressing down the thick string of worry that curled around his chest. With Julian gone, he had to be calm, had to be the rational one; there was nothing to be gained by him getting angry.

"Do you know why he's been there so long?" he asked.

Gwyn's eyes were hard, "He will be a sacrifice to Hell."

The worry, already stretched taut, snapped and filled Mark's chest with a horrible hot feeling. Drusilla looked at him with desperate eyes.

"I'll come," Mark said, "Are we on foot?"

"We are Hunters,  _March._  Of course we are not on foot."

"I'm coming with you," Drusilla said fiercely.

"No, you're not," Mark said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I know you're good but you're only thirteen; I can't take you there, Dru."

For a moment, he thought she was going to argue but she looked at Gwyn, mulling him over in her mind. "You're not going on your own?"

Gwyn snorted and Mark just grinned, "Course not. Gwyn's a good guard dog."

Gwyn muttered under his breath in Welsh. Drusilla, after a moment of hesitation, wrapped her arms around Mark and hugged him, holding onto him for the first time since she'd been eight years old.

"Bring him back safe, OK?" she said quietly. Mark mussed up her hair.

"You have to let me go first."

"Sorry." Drusilla stepped back, "I'll tell Ty where you've gone."

The moment she left, Gwyn seized Mark's elbow and pulled him away and out of Malcolm's home. Considering his urgency, Mark felt that it was more than just Julian Gwyn was worrying about. He stopped not far from Malcolm's house and whistled, three cold, clear notes.

"It's not just Jules, is it?" Mark said, squeezing Gwyn's hand as they waited.

"Kieran is there," Gwyn said, eyes searching the sky, "Alone."

There was a rush of wind and a clatter of hooves; Mark took a step back as Cernunnos landed, skipping over cracks in the ground to come to a stop in front of Mark. Mark let go of Gwyn to rub at the stag's shoulder, pressing his face against the fur on the animal's neck.

"Good to see you, old friend," he said, pulling himself up onto Cernunnos's back. It felt right, the idea of riding alongside Gwyn again.

"Mark, wait!"

He heard Gwyn's frustrated groan but he kept Cernunnos still, waiting for Emma to reach them. She grabbed at Cernunnos's neck, her brown eyes bright with stubborn determination. She was still clad in her gear, her hair retied and blades at her back. Cortana gleamed in the last dim remains of light.

"If you're going to get Jules," she said, "I'm coming too. He's my parabatai; I need to be there."

"Are you riding or running?" Mark asked.

"No room on your deer," Emma said, eyeing Cernunnos's antlers, "I know where the court is, I can-"

She squeaked slightly when Gwyn lifted her by the back of her jacket, tucking her against his chest on the front of his saddle. His lip curled as she fidgeted against him.

"You'd be too slow," he said, shortening the reins and turning, "Humans always are."

"Some advice, Emma," Mark said as Emma twisted one hand into a clump of mane in front of her, "Don't let go."

* * *

"See how well the colour suits you."

Julian swayed slightly in front of the mirror as Ailill straightened his clothes, blue silk smoothing out like ice beneath the faery's hands. The drink that Ailill had given him was starting to wear off and, mind clear and sober, he could examine himself in the mirror.

There was a bruised bite on his neck, skin broken and sluggishly bleeding. He lightly touched it and it sent a thin thrill of pain through him. He knew his sleeves hid unexplained red marks on his arms. He pushed Ailill's hands away so he could examine the bruises on his hips, soft silk bunched between his hands.

"What did you do to me?"

"We had a little fun." Ailill's grin was wicked, He pulled the fabric out of Julian's hands and straightened his clothes again, "Now stop touching."

He produced a pair of silver cuffs and fastened them over Julian's wrists. With a touch as a light as a feather, he trailed one finger along Julian's jaw.

"Be good, Julian," he said softly, "The world is watching."

Julian stared at him for a moment before he wet his lips and asked, "Why me?"

Ailill stopped, his hand against the door. He turned to look at Julian again, considering him with a thoughtful look on his face. Julian twisted the chain of the cuffs between his wrists, his jaw set, determined not to look away.

"Because your death will change things," Ailill said, "Think on it. People are being butchered and the Clave takes no notice of events until one Shadowhunter turns up dead in a tithe. People are unhappy enough; do you think that the knowledge that dozens of Downworlders are worth less than one Shadowhunter will make anything any better?" He smiled, showing those thin, bruising teeth, "And when they hear the stories that it was all a Shadowhunter, when that nixie who saw the last murder runs and tells what they saw."

"Where did the gear come from?"

"I have many friends." Ailill took hold of the chain of the cuffs, "Now come. You're about to make history."

Julian followed without protest, allowing Ailill to lead him through the court. This was his last slim chance of escape; getting away from Ailill would be the first step. If he could lose himself in a crowd of faeries, hide amongst them until he found the entrance…

He shook his head; not possible. He'd get hopelessly lost in the maze of caverns and halls, reduced to waiting for someone to find him, at which point he'd be killed anyway.

He was led past clumps of faeries who reached out to grasp at him, to touch him, the same way mundanes would touch horseshoes and statues for luck. One of them grabbed him hard enough to yank him out of Ailill's hold and he was suddenly surrounded by faeries, clutched against a firm chest. He saw mismatched eyes, black and silver, and something warm blossomed in his chest.

_I'm not abandoning you, Blackthorn._

Kieran had come back.

Julian heard Ailill shout but he didn't look back when Kieran took his hand and led him away, a knot of faeries forming a barrier between them and Ailill. Kieran led him off down a narrow side corridor, towards a dark stairwell. Over the sound of his heartbeat, Julian could hear the sound of the sea and he almost wanted to cry.

"You came back," he said and his voice was more strangled than he'd ever want it to be.

"Of course," Kieran said and Julian saw the pull of a smile crinkle the faery's eyes, "I would hardly leave you here."

Julian could almost taste freedom. If Kieran could get him out of this, he'd lay his loyalties at the feet of the Wild Hunt, give them anything they asked for. The chain of the cuffs jangled between his wrists but he didn't even question how he was going to get them off.

He didn't even notice footsteps behind him until a thick arm caught him around the waist; he tilted and nearly toppled over, lifted off of his feet. Kieran swore, Julian's fingers slipping through his. Julian swung his head back, aiming for a nose or a jaw, but instead he just hit heavy chains that rattled beneath his skull.

"Did you think it would be so easy?"

Ailill's voice was like ice and Julian paused in his struggles against the ogre's hold, watching Kieran for his reaction. Kieran lifted his chin and met Ailill's angry gaze.

"You seemed to," he said, "You seemed to think his death would be as quiet as all the others."

The ogre pressed her arm tight against Julian's throat and he choked, air suddenly tightened and restricted. Kieran's eyes moved from him to Ailill. Julian dug his nails into the ogre's arm but she barely loosened her hold, opening his throat so he could just draw breath.

"It will be," Ailill said, "His blood will spill on the floor of the hall, and if you take another step, yours will colour the ocean."

More faeries emerged from the stairwell and Kieran's shoulders slumped slightly, though he didn't look around to them. He didn't protest when a heavy collar was locked around his throat but his eyes turned hard and cold.

"Of course," he said when a chain was fixed to the collar, "Of course you had someone waiting."

"Where are you taking him?" Julian asked as Kieran was dragged away, "What will you do?"

"None of your concern," Ailill said. He gestured to the ogre to put him down. Once Julian was back on his feet, Ailill grasped his jaw, digging his nails in, "You have made this more difficult than it needs to be. I thought better of you."

Before Julian could protest, Ailill seized his elbow and dragged him back, pulling him away from his stairs to freedom. The ogre walked in his footsteps, looming over him, keeping anyone else from touching him. The end of the hallway opened up into an enormous cavern, the earth pulled open to expose the night sky; it was scattered with more stars than Julian had ever seen and something in his gut told him he was on the border with Faerie.

The hall was utterly packed with faeries, some human looking, other monstrous and alien. Julian had never seen so many in one place. Those closest to him stopped to look, their mouths curving up into pointed smiles, their eyes hungry. Now Julian could feel fear swelling up and clawing at his chest. Mab was standing up ahead, above all the others, and he could see the dagger against the dark purple of her gown, gleaming silver. The rest of the Unseelie Court gentry stood in a row behind her, clad in shades of purple, black and grey. The stone platform she stood on was stained dark red by years of spilt blood.

"You're late," she said when Ailill reached her. He kissed her hand.

"We had a little trouble in the hall," he said, "Nothing to worry about." He pulled Julian forward, "Here he is."

Mab ran her hand through Julian's hair, "I'm glad to see the little incident in the hall didn't hurt you too badly."

She smiled and Julian could already feel himself starting to drown in it. He focussed on the throbbing pain of the mark on his neck and pulled himself back, refusing to allow himself to be magicked into a stupor again.

"Please, Mab," he said when Ailill roughly turned him and pushed him to his knees. He craned his neck to look at her, "You don't have to. You don't have to do this."

He hated how he sounded like he was pleading. Mab's hand landed in his hair, pulling his head back to bare his throat; he felt the dagger run over his throat, sending chills up his spine. His heart beat hard and fast and the fear was a thick dark string that strangled his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ailill stood to the side, hands clasped behind his back.

Around the edge of the platform, silver flames flared up in their dark metal brackets and the revel fell silent and still. Julian's breathing was fast and raw in his chest and he kept focussed on the stars overhead.

"It's been seven years," Mab said and the blade stilled, edge digging into Julian's throat, "Tonight, we break tradition; tonight, I bind you to my court and our protection to keep us all safe from those who seek to destroy us."

As one, the gathered faeries all sank to their knees. Their voice rose up and joined into a one as loud as thunder, echoing off of the walls, "Ay at the end of seven years, we pay a tiend to hell."

The dagger dug in deeper and Julian's skin split, blood trickling down his neck, staining the silk over his collar bone. Ailill's mouth curved up into a smirk.

"And what is it that we offer?" Mab said, her fingers tightening in Julian's hair.

Behind her, the gentry spoke, "A human's blood, a human's life, a human's soul."

Julian twisted his wrists, testing the cuffs on his wrists. He pulled the chain tight and the edge of the cuffs dug into his skin. He bit down on his bottom lip, trying to keep his breathing steady; he didn't want to have to pop his thumb out of place to break free but his desperation was growing. Off to the right, he saw Kieran, still collared, teeth gritted as he was forced to watch.

"And what do we ask in return?" Mab cried, voice ringing with power.

"Loyalty!" both the gentry and the gathered faeries roared in reply, the faeries in front surging to their feet. The word was repeated over and over, growing in volume, each repetition running into the next.

Mab raised the dagger, ready to plunge it point first into Julian's exposed throat. Julian squeezed his eyes closed, pulse leaping, ears roaring with the cacophony of the court. Overhead, the wind wailed and screamed.

There was the clatter of metal on stone and Mab screamed, letting go of Julian's hair. The court's chant was interrupted and Julian heard something large land amongst them. Metal sang as Ailill drew his sword and Julian opened his eyes to see a long black arrow protruding from Mab's shoulder.

"Get back." Mark's voice was all hard cold steel, another arrow already on the bowstring. The crowd parted as he strode forward, "Away. From. My. Brother."


	13. The Duel

"Mark!"

Julian was trying to stand. Mark wanted to throw his bow down and grab his brother close; he had the grey, hollow look of a thrall and it twisted Mark's heart to see him like that. There was a line of red on his throat. Mark scanned the gentry, taking in the tall dark haired knight and the bleeding queen, looking for Kieran. He found him and his blood boiled; they'd collared him, like he was some kind of animal.

"Jules!" Emma cried and she tried to bolt forward but Gwyn caught her elbow, "Let me go! Jules!"

Gwyn just held on to her, grim faced, and Mark could see that he was crawling with anger. Mark drew the bowstring back, gaze fixed on the knight. The tip of the sword was pricking at the side of Julian's neck, drawing another bright red bead of blood. The queen had turned away to pull the arrow free.

"Get away from him," Mark said and the knight just scowled.

"Mark," Kieran said, his voice carrying a warning. He nodded towards the sword, "Wait."

Julian was trying to lean away from a sword that was needling into his neck, another trickle of blood staining his clothes.

"You have no right to interrupt a tithe," Mab said through gritted teeth. She held the arrow in her hand, the head of it gory, "It is our tradition and our right."

"I have every right," Gwyn said before anyone else could speak. He loosened his gauntlet and pulled it off, showing his scarred palm, "A promise made to me, sealed in blood. My claim on the boy's life trumps yours."

"He's not a thing!" Emma protested.

"Emma," Mark said quietly, turning to her, "He's trying to help."

The sword withdrew from Julian's neck and Mark breathed a sigh of relief. Kieran fidgeted against his chain and it felt like the entire court was holding its breath. The queen dropped the arrow and glared at Julian, her face poisonous.

"A duel then," she said eventually, "The winner takes him." She leant on one of her nobles, "Ailill, champion me?"

He smiled and the tip of his sword nicked Julian's cheek, "With pleasure."

"And you, Gwyn?" Mab said, "Will you fight your own battles?"

"I'll do it," Mark said, lowering his bow. He turned back towards Gwyn, unbuckling his quiver from around his waist. He handed it to Gwyn while Emma stared, slightly horrified.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, grabbing his arm, "What if he wins? What if he kills you? What will happen to Jules?"

"Then you challenge him right away," Mark said, "And you tear him to pieces and take my brother home."

Anything else Emma was going to say was stopped when Gwyn caught Mark in a kiss, quick but desperate, full of need.

"You will win," Gwyn said softly, lips brushing against Mark's ear, "For me, for her, for Julian." He nodded, "For Kieran."

Mark didn't need to look to know that Kieran's face was proud but filled with trepidation. He loathed to think of the collar around Kieran's neck, the chains holding him like he was some kind of animal, a dog that needed to be restrained for the whole court to see. He simply kissed Gwyn back.

"I will," he said, and it was a promise, "And I'm going to make it sting." He looked to Emma again, "Can I use one of your blades?"

"Sure thing," Emma said, drawing the blade from her back. She shot a glare at Ailill, who was making a show of waiting, "I want you to  _gut_ him."

"I'd do it for you," Mark said. He pulled Emma close and inclined his head towards Julian, who'd been left looking wan and lost in his chains while Gwyn pulled the queen away, "Go to him."

The Unseelie Court pulled back and away from them, forming a ring. Emma pushed through them to get to Julian's side, sweeping him into a hug. Mark positioned himself between them while Emma stroked her parabatai's hair, soothing his frayed nerves.

"I'm so sorry," she was whispering, "I would have stopped this, if I could. I'd never let anyone hurt you."

Mark didn't turn around to see Julian curl into Emma's hold, to see him press his face into Emma's shoulder and try to hide his trembling. He held Ailill's gaze, refusing to look at the blade that could easily end this if it were placed right; his shoulder, his throat, a clean slice through his Achilles tendon.

There was the clink of chains as Kieran was dragged to the queen's side, just out of Gwyn's reach, and Mark's heart tightened. He could tell by how Kieran was standing that there was a blade at his back; it would explain why Gwyn was doing nothing but glowering at the queen.

"The duel shall be to the death," the queen announced. She gave one of Kieran's chains a sharp tug, "And you will watch this."

Mark barely had time to move before Ailill pounced, his blade a sweep of silver. He danced out of the way whilst the Unseelie Court bayed for his blood, urging Ailill to tear him apart. He couldn't let Ailill touch him. He had to win this. He called to mind the look in his brother's face and tried to school his face to be as impassive as possible; he couldn't give anything away.

He couldn't let Ailill think he could win.

* * *

"You have confidence in your boy."

"You say it like we shouldn't."

Gwyn stood behind Mab, looming over her, one hand on his bow. He hated how smug she sounded, as if Ailill's victory was already guaranteed. He glanced to Kieran, but the other's face was impassive; years of keeping his emotions hidden around Unseelie faeries had schooled it into a habit. In the circle in front of them, Mark was on the defensive, dodging Ailill's blows, searching for openings.

"Ailill has centuries of experience," Mab said coolly, watching as Ailill struck Mark with the pommel of his sword, "Your Mark can't compete." She looked over at Julian Blackthorn, being shielded by Emma, and smiled, "I will have my tithe. We will have our blood tonight."

"Ailill may have experience," Kieran said softly, "But I think you'd be surprised at what Mark will do for love of his brother."

Gwyn smiled. Of course Mab would underestimate Mark's need to protect Julian; he had no idea how she felt about her own brother, her devoted knight, but he knew the Unseelie Court didn't feel so fiercely about family as the Seelie Court did. And Mark was half Seelie, with his human love and devotion piled on top.

His heart leapt into his throat when Mark was knocked down, the sword carving a line across his back. Ailill pushed Mark down, pinning him to the ground, and the surrounding Unseelie cheered for their champion. Out of the corner of his eye, Gwyn saw Kieran's mouth twist in disgust when Ailill straddled Mark, leaning in to whisper to him. Mark writhed beneath him, red blood seeping out from the wound Gwyn couldn't see.

"Get up,  _March_ ," he breathed, leaning forward, "Get up."

Mab's smile grew and she brushed off the faery tending her wound, turning away and beckoning for Kieran to be brought with her, content in the assumption that the duel was already won. Emma had turned Julian's face away, keeping him from looking. Any faery that even looked towards him was met with a venomous glare. She looked ready to lash out, ready to spring forward if Mark failed.

But Mark wouldn't fail; he couldn't.

Gwyn caught Kieran's eye, the worried look in them before Kieran was pulled away and swallowed up by the court. Looking back, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood that was spreading across the floor, thin and far too red.

* * *

Pain blazed up along Mark's back, setting every nerve afire. He could feel his own blood, wet and slippery, making his shirt cling to his back. He shoved at Ailill's chest despite the shaking in his arms. He'd let himself get distracted: by Jules, by Kieran. And now he was losing.

"I expected more from a Hunter," Ailill said, pinning down Mark's wrist, the hand that held the seraph blade curling loosely around the handle, "And from a Shadowhunter. What is it, Mark? Don't you  _love_ him enough?"

"What do you know about love?" Mark said, gritting his teeth against the pain in his back.

"I don't know." Ailill pressed the tip of the sword into the ground by the side of Mark's head, the edge digging into his cheek, "Why don't you ask Julian? He'll tell you of how much I _loved_  him."

Anger burnt in Mark's gut. Julian. His younger brother who Ailill had been leading to his death. His younger brother, who Ailill had mistreated so. His baby brother, who needed him to win this so he could go home. He tightened his hold on the seraph blade.

The pain in his back pulled as he headbutted Ailill, his forehead striking Ailill's with enough force to rattle the stars. Ailill flinched back, clutching his head, which gave Mark the opportunity to shove him off and away. His back screamed in protest as he twisted away, dodging another swipe from Ailill's blade. The surrounding Unseelie Court was a blur of faces and cacophony of voices, all of them rising in a mess of sound in support of Ailill. He caught sight of Emma, wrapped around Julian, and raised the seraph blade.

"Jegudiel."

The seraph blade flared with brilliant light. The Unseelie Court drew back away from him but Ailill just thumbed the bruise rising on his forehead; he was just as determined as Mark to come out triumphant.

He pushed through the pain in his back, past the hundreds of needles plunging into every nerve ending, to twist past Ailill's next strike, ducking behind him. Ailill turned to try and parry but the seraph blade carved through his sword easily, melting through armour and burning through skin and bone. Mark's knees buckled and Ailill fell with him, slumping forward over the seraph blade, his blood hot and sizzling over the blade. The faery knight's eyes were blank and staring in death, his face twisted into an expression of disbelief. The silence of the court was deafening.

" _March."_

Gwyn pulled him up, holding him steady even as his limbs shook and his vision blurred. Ailill crumpled onto the ground, seraph blade still buried in his gut. Mark's blood mingled with his on the ground, a congealing pool of red.

"Julian," Mark said, trying to pull away from Gwyn, "I have to see him." He hissed when Gwyn lightly touched the wound on his back, "I…" he sucked in a deep breath.

"Won your brother's life and freedom," Gwyn whispered, and his hand was wet on Mark's arm, "You need to be healed."

"I need to be with Jules," Mark said, batting Gwyn's hand away, "Kieran needs…" His vision blurred and wobbled, "You should go to Kieran."

He pulled away and the Unseelie Court parted before him, simply watching in silence. Emma's boots echoed in the silence as she ran towards him. Her arms caught him when his knees gave way again and she was beaming with pride.

"Can't wait to tell Tavvy," she said, helping him steady himself, "About how cool his oldest brother is."

She let him kneel in front of Julian. Julian's face was filled with utter gratitude and adoration. His arms were still chained but he pressed his cheek to Mark's shoulder. Mark felt his deep, shuddering breaths and he reached up to stroke Julian's hair, ignoring the blood coating his fingers.

"Thank you," Julian whispered. His breath hitched, "Thank you."

"I'd do it again," Mark said, "I'd do it again for any one of you."

Emma pulled the neck of his shirt away, the tip of her stele pressed gently to his skin, "Do you need?"

"Please."

She drew the iratze quickly, waiting until it sank into his skin and the wound started to close before she settled at Julian's side again. She plucked at the chains.

"I tried to get them off," she said, "They don't respond to anything and I don't have a key."

"I'll get them off," Mark said, and he lifted Julian's head to examine him. There were no injuries to his face, but the cut on his throat was stark and red, a bite mark on his neck peeking above the collar of his tunic. Julian turned away, face flushed.

"Don't look at that," he said. Emma's face was full of understanding and she gently prodded at his cheek.

"No one's judging you, Jules."

Mark nodded in agreement. He wanted to offer his own words of comfort but he was interrupted by Gwyn's frantic shouts.

"Don't you touch him! Don't you dare touch him!"

Mark turned, one hand still on Julian's shoulder, to see Gwyn being held back by a group of Unseelie faeries. The queen stared him down, her dagger retrieved. Kieran had been pushed to his knees in front of her, staring ahead with a stony expression.

"The Unseelie Court demands blood for the tithe," Mab said, voice ringing. The atmosphere of the Court had changed from silent disbelief to buzzing again, awaiting her next move.

"He's a faery," Mark said, rising to his feet, "She can't do this."

"Kieran!" Gwyn shouted, wrestling one arm free to grab for his bow. "Do not touch me!" he snarled when the faery went to grasp for him again. He reached for another arrow, "Kieran!"

Mab, foreseeing another shot, brings the knife down. Mark felt something tear in his chest as she did it again and again. Kieran tried to move away after the first strike, halting with pain, and the blade sank into his back. Red blood poured and dripped from his wounds. Mark could hear Emma calling to him through the rush in his ears.

Kieran crumpled forward, his eyes empty and unseeing; Mab stood over him, splattered and stained with his blood. For one long, horrible moment the court was still.

And then Gwyn raised his bow.


	14. Returning Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly the end. We're so close. Can you taste it? It tastes like salt.

Emma hauled Julian to his feet, her own seraph blade drawn and blazing as the court heaved around them. Mark, screaming with rage and grief, plunged into the crowd and was lost. Julian twisted to search for his brother but there was no sign of him in the mass of faeries that descended upon Gwyn ap Nudd. Mab was pinned to the wall, a long black arrow protruding from her chest.

"Come on, Jules," Emma said pulling him through the crowd, faeries peeling away from the light of the blade, "We need to get you out of here."

"But Mark-"

"Can take care of himself, I'm sure."

His bare feet slapped against stone and his heart raced along with his thoughts: Ailill was dead; the queen was dead; Kieran was dead; Mark and Gwyn might not be far behind. What would this mean for faeries? For Downworlders, once Ailill's plan got out? For the Clave? For peace?

"Emma," he said as she tugged him down an open corridor, "I need to tell you something."

"One sec," Emma said, pausing in the empty corridor where it branched off into three. She licked one finger and raised it, waiting for the touch of a breeze. She pulled him down the hall to the left, following the thin lick of the wind, "Get you safe first."

The wind strengthened as the space opened up to the beach, the constellations overhead shifting into the familiar shapes he remembered. A black horse pawed at the sand further along the beach, a stag lies on the ground, both of them quietly content and ignorant of the cacophony below.

"Right," Emma said breathlessly. The horse lifted its head and flicked an ear in their direction, "Let's free you up a bit."

Julian held his wrists out, pulling the chain tight between them, and Emma pressed the seraph blade to it. The metal hissed and shrieked with heat before falling away. Despite the cuffs still circling his wrists, the chain being gone made it feel like a weight had been lifted from Julian's shoulders.

"Thanks," he said, "You didn't have to go in there."

"Course I did," Emma said, "I couldn't leave you there." She sat down on the sand and looked back to the cave they'd emerged from; it had closed off to a wall of solid rock, "What did you need to tell me?"

"You remember when I went to England?"

"Mmhmm."

Julian sat down opposite her and dug his fingers into the sand, "I ma—"

The rock wall burst open with a crash and a cloud of dust. Mark emerged, his face grim and spattered with something dark and sticky. One hand clutched his bow whilst the other was curled around something small, thin chain swinging free. Gwyn followed on his heels, carrying Kieran, swathed in his cloak.

"What happened?" Emma said, nodding towards the blood on Mark's face. He shrugged and swiped it away.

"Nothing that matters." Mark beckoned, "Come here, Jules."

Julian stood and Mark uncurled his fist to reveal a key, small and glinting on its chain. Mark turned Julian's wrist to find where the cuff locked and, when the metal fell away, the cold breeze against his skin was a relief. Mark unlocked the second and dropped it to the sand in disgust.

"You all right?" he asked. His hands found Julian's shoulders and left bloody handprints, "Is anything broken?"

"No. Still in one piece," Julian said, managing a weak smile. The bruises on his hips and the bite on his neck seem to throb at once but he ignored them, "Thanks to you." Emma coughed and he quickly added, "And Emma of course."

"We did all right," Emma said. She eyed where Kieran had been laid out on the sand, Gwyn hunched over him, his face lost in mourning, "I'm sorry about Kieran."

"Don't be," Mark said, and he sounded like he was talking past a lump in his throat, "You didn't kill him."

"And the one who did is gone," Gwyn said and he turned. His eyes were wet, "Should I see her again, I shall destroy her thrice over."

Mark excused himself to go to Gwyn's side, crouching down next to him, one hand on his shoulder. They lean in together, foreheads pressed together. They existed in their own private sphere, one formed out of shared grief. Emma reached for Julian's hand but caught his wrist, covering the welt left by the cuffs.

"Mark?" Emma said, "Jules and I are gonna head back to Malcolm's. Will you be OK?"

"I've survived far worse," Mark said hoarsely.

"What about the Institute?" Julian asked Emma quietly. Her mouth pressed into a line.

"I'll tell you at Malcolm's."

Julian broke away from her for a moment to hover behind Mark, "I'll be seeing you?"

Mark gave the barest nod, "I'll be seeing you."

* * *

The shower was still running. Julian had retreated in there with one of Malcolm's thick towels and a neat pile of clean clothes over half an hour ago and still hadn't come out. The mark on his neck seemed to be the elephant in the room; Tavvy had asked about it, but no one had attempted to answer, instead choosing to divert his attention with promises of ice cream and being allowed up past bedtime.

Emma watched while Tavvy sat on the floor, playing with some toys that Malcolm had managed to find for him. Arthur was on the settee across from him, occasionally rolling something back to him when he escaped his hands. Emma knew Ty was in Malcolm's room, letting Malcolm show him how to play his favourite video games, while Dru was in the attic room she shared with Livia, hiding herself in her books. Livia had vanished into the kitchen.

"Do you think he's all right?" Emma said, looking up at the ceiling and counting flecks in the plaster.

Arthur rolled one of Tavvy's toy cars beneath his foot and turned the page in his book, "He's been through a lot. He'll talk to you, more than any of us."

"You think that's what he needs?"

"It helps," Arthur said. Tavvy clambered up beside him, tucking himself under his uncle's arm, "Or it should."

"Helps with what?" Tavvy said, "What'd they do to Jules?"

"They did a lot to Jules," Arthur said quietly, pushing some of Tavvy's hair from his face, "But he'll be OK."

"I'll go see if he's all right," Emma said, standing and pushing her sleeves up, "Get him to stop using Malcolm's water."

She left Arthur with Tavvy as she headed up the stairs. Trepidation brewed in her stomach as she hovered outside of the bathroom door; she didn't know what she'd find on the other side.

"Jules?" she called, tapping on the door, "You OK? Can I come in?"

He answered and his voice was thin, "It's not locked."

She twisted the knob and steam poured out between the door and the frame. She slipped in and shut the door behind her. The first thing she noted was the clothes piled on the floor, untouched.

"Ah, Jules."

He was sat huddled in the shower, sitting under the spray fully clothed. His hair was plastered to his head and faery silk clung to his skin, the white turning thin with water. When he looked up, his eyes were red. Emma turned the lock and went to join him, ignoring how the water soaked her jeans.

"Sorry," he said, twisting silk between his hands, "It's hard."

"Well, harder now you've got it all wet," Emma said and he only managed a ghost's smile, "Do you want me to go?"

"No, you're fine." He took a deep breath, ducking his head to avoid the water, "You might need to peel me out."

It was a weak attempt at trying to turn the situation light hearted but Emma said nothing. She grasped the tunic and helped him wriggle out of it; the minute she pulled it off, the fabric started to disintegrate, nothing but spider's silk in a tempest.

Julian shrank back against the shower wall, trying to cover the bruises on his hips and sides, livid and purple. Emma could make out the outlines of handprints over his skin, pressed in purple and blotchy green.

"It doesn't look bad," Emma said, wondering if she was even saying the right thing, "Really."

"It's not the bruises," Julian said and he picked at the cap of the shampoo bottle, "It's where they came from. I shouldn't have…I should have fought harder. I shouldn't have let him just…" He groaned and stared down the drain, "You won't tell the others, will you?"

Emma, understanding how Julian had a need to present himself in a certain way to his siblings, just shook her head, "Course not. Though I think Ty and Livvy already know."

"As long as Tavvy doesn't. He has to deal with enough. He needs me to be strong for him." The cap popped open but Julian made no move to use it, "He needs me to be what I'm not right now."

Emma's hair dripped and hung lank around her face and her shirt clung to her back. She leant in to bump her forehead against Julian's, water cascading down and around them, running off of their shoulders in tiny rivers. Her hands came up to thread in his soaked curls.

"You are strong," she said, "I know you don't feel it but you are."

She kissed the tip of his nose and she could feel him trembling. She wasn't sure when his tears had started, mingling with the shower water as they did, and she cuddled him closer. The water had turned her shirt as transparent as ice but she hardly cared; her Jules was hurting and she had to help him.

"You'll be OK," she said, "I know you will. And if anyone says otherwise, I'll fight them."

That drew out a choked laugh and Julian pulled away to rub at his eyes, "I'll be out soon. Thanks for coming in."

"I had to make sure you were OK," Emma said, standing. Her jeans hung heavy, "I'll go and make you some coffee or something. We get the room right down the hall."

She backed out of the bathroom and stood in the hall for a moment, dripping on the carpet, before she headed to the bedroom to change into her dry pyjamas. She dropped her jeans and shirt next to the laundry basket that Malcolm had set up for the Blackthorns and padded through to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on before knocking on Malcolm's door.

"Lady Carstairs," Malcolm said when he opened the door. His white hair was tousled and she could see Tiberius perched on the edge of his bed, gaze fixed on Malcolm's Nintendo, "What can I do you for?"

"Do you have a laptop I could borrow?" Emma said, weakly miming typing on the air, "For Skype."

"Sure, give me a second." Malcolm retreated back into his room, sifting through the files and folders he kept under his bed until he came up with the sleek computer, "Here."

She half expected him to toss it to her but he delivered it to her, looping its charge cable over her shoulder. He beamed.

"Take care of him," he said, "We're good friends."

The sound of the shower stopped and Emma breathed a small sigh, "I will. He'll come back in one piece."

She headed back to her room, holding the laptop slightly away from her, and deposited the computer onto the bed while she brushed out her hair. The computer started up with a gentle whirr and a soft white light. She heard the bathroom lock click open, the sound of footsteps against wet tile.

"Hey," he said, pushing the door open. One of Malcolm's jumpers hung too long off of his frame, "Sorry you got wet."

"Nah, don't be," Emma said, "You didn't drag me into the shower." She shifted on the bed, patting the mattress next to her, "Come here; got someone to see you."

The bed creaked and Julian sat alongside her, leaning against the wall with his knees hugged to his chest. Emma turned the laptop screen towards him and a grin broke out across his face.

" _There's my sweet thing."_

"Morning, Cameron."

The image of Cameron on the screen was blurry, with his internet connection being shaky and tenuous, and there was a smudge of Cristina in the background. Emma wound her arm around Julian's waist.

"He's not sweet though," she said, "He's used all of Malcolm's hot water. Hi Cristina!"

The smudge that was Cristina raised one hand, " _You should be sleeping!"_

"How is Paris?" Julian asked, "Nice?"

" _Yeah, very nice. Very romantic_ ," Cameron's jovial tone faded, " _Course, what happened in LA is already sending waves."_

Emma tightened her hold on Julian, "Already?"

" _News in Downworld travels fast,"_ Cristina said, " _But it's definitely more about the Clave doing nothing to stop the murders, not about Julian. And of course, wherever Gwyn ap Nudd goes, news follows soon after."_

"You missed Mark, by the way," Julian said, "I know you're curious about him."

" _Damn,"_ Cristina said, " _I leave for three weeks and the prettiest Blackthorn drops by."_

" _When all this blows over,"_ Cameron said, " _And everything's back to normal, does Paris sound like a good idea to you? Emma and I could go Eidolon hunting while you get lost in the Louvre and cry over old, dead people. ."_ Cameron grinned, " _We'd pick you up at the end of the day, of course. That sound good to you?"_

Emma glanced at Julian to see him smile, relaxed and warm and looking like himself again.

"I'd like that," he said, "I'd like that very much."


	15. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. What a wild ride we've had together. It's been fun, no? Just me? OK then.

It had been a long time since Mark had shared Gwyn's horse; the last and only time had been Gwyn taking him away from the Seelie Court, huddled and bleeding. Now, he sat across the front of Gwyn's saddle, head on Gwyn's shoulder, cradling Kieran's oak sapling close. It was just a tiny thing, barely reaching Mark's chin. Du y Moroedd picked his way through the wood, only needing the barest touch on the reins to steer him.

"Your brother is alive," Gwyn said, "Because of Kieran. The silver lining appears for you, however thin it may be."

"But what about you?" Mark said, angling his head but unable to properly read Gwyn's expression.

"I have my own comforts." Gwyn pulled to a stop, "Arawn is here."

Mark slid off of Du y Moroedd, taking care of the sapling. Arawn was more sombre looking than usual, his black curls tossed by the breeze and his three eyes watchful and tired. He stepped forward to take Du y Moroedd's reins.

"I was sorry to hear of your loss, Gwyn," he said whilst Gwyn dismounted, "I know how your hunters are dear to you." His gaze slid to Mark, "Some much more than you say."

" _Diolch,_ Arawn," Gwyn said. He nodded towards the oak, its leaves swaying in the breeze and buds blooming on its branches, "Does he have a place?"

"We all have a place here," Arawn said, "He has one by the sea."

Mark smiled slightly, "I don't know how he'd like that."

"He has not objected. This way."

Arawn led them through the small forest, small because a death in the Hunt was rare, built up only because of the sheer age of the Hunt. Mark looked at each tree as he passed them, wondering if Gwyn could name each and every faery they represented or if they'd long since faded from memory. His hold on Kieran's tree tightened; the idea of Kieran being forgotten made him ill. The sun danced through the leaves of the towering oaks, splashed green and gold across the grass.

"His is here," Arawn said, "A view fit for a king."

The spot stood away from the edge of the coast but with a view of the sea, shifting shades of blue and grey and white. Arawn had already scooped out the earth for Kieran's oak, a neat crevice in the earth line with finger marks. Mark glanced at Gwyn before he crouched to ease the oak into the dip. The sapling swayed a little as he pulled his hands from beneath the roots. Gwyn knelt next to him, a wolf's jawbone hanging from the thin chain in his hand.

"He'll forget them otherwise," Gwyn said, lowering the jawbone to nestle against the roots, "Did you find something?"

"Yes." Mark reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out his witchlight. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the familiar surface under his fingers, "He said an interesting rock. And you know, he likes witchlights." He pressed a kiss to the witchlight, "From me to you, Kieran."

He tucked it amongst the roots and the glow slowly faded as he pulled the dirt back over it. Gwyn's hands joined his and the dirt turned the crescents of their nails black. The wind brushed through the leaves of the tree as the pair of them stood, filthy hands entwined together. Arawn's hand found Gwyn's shoulder.

"You laid him in your cloak," he said.

"He is of summer," Gwyn said, "When winter finds him, he must be warm."

Arawn's focus drifted through the trees and across the border into his country. Following his gaze, Mark could see a tall, familiar figure, swathed in Gwyn's cloak. There was a barrier between them now, the space between the living Hunt and the dead. His hold on Gwyn's hand tightened.

"He'll wait for you," Arawn said, "Loyal and true."

"Tell him not to wait too much or too long," Gwyn said, "We still have much to do on this side of your land." He looked to Mark, "I need words with your brother."

"He's been through a lot," Mark said simply, tearing his eyes away from the spectre of Kieran in the distance.

"Regardless, there are things that must be said and done." Gwyn teased one of the oak leaves, "Farewell, Kieran."

Arawn's hand fell from Gwyn's shoulder and he drew his cloak close as he went to leave.

"Arawn." The name burst from him before he could stop it and Mark felt his cheeks burn slightly when Arawn stopped and turned, "Tell him…tell him I love him. And that I'm sorry I couldn't save him too."

Arawn's face was soft, "He knows, Mark ab Andrew. He knows."

* * *

It was three days before Julian saw Mark again. He'd been sat with Livia in Malcolm's living room, reading with her. The bruises on his hips and sides had started to turn yellow and green and the cut on his throat was healing in a thin line. The scar on his palm twinged.

"Jules," Livia said, tapping his shoulder, "Look." She tapped a knuckle against the window.

Julian's chest tightened when he saw the black horse and the prickling in his hand increased. Gwyn's face was turned up towards the upper windows, searching, but Mark was out of sight. Malcolm's doorbell rang and Julian let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, the window fogging.

"He came back," Livia said, pleased, "Ty will be so happy. He hated that Mark left without saying goodbye."

Julian heard Malcolm heading down to answer the door, Tavvy tumbling behind. He scratched at his parabatai rune; he had to see Emma.

"I'll be back," he said, "Give me a second."

He rubbed at his palm as he made his way to Emma's room, trying to ease the phantom pain. After speaking with Cameron the other night, he'd told her everything, right down to the promise he'd made to Gwyn ap Nudd. He pushed her door open without even knocking and she squeaked, rushing to cover herself.

"Jules, give me some warning next time!" she said, pulling her shirt over her head. She brushed her hair back behind her ears and caught sight of his face in the mirror, "What's wrong?"

"Gwyn's come back."

Her face moved from horrified shock to looking slightly sick in the blink of an eye. She moved to look out the window but, with the angle, she didn't see anything. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip.

"Did he bring Mark?" she asked, and he nodded, "Then it might be just for Mark to see us." She turned and grasped his hand, "He might not be here to take you. He might have forgotten."

"Faeries don't forget," he said, "I can't go back on what I said."

"You didn't think it would happen." Emma gripped his arm and her eyes were fierce, "He won't take you; he can't if you refuse. Besides, Mark won't let him."

"I think swearing an oath invalidates whether I want to go with him or not."

Emma's mouth was a line, "We'll see."

They went to meet Mark and Gwyn together, hand in hand. Emma covered the throbbing scar, which only worsened when he saw Gwyn. The faery looked odd and out of place in Malcolm's living room, leaning against the door frame, standing apart from Mark and the others. Mark and Tiberius were on Malcolm's settee, sat hip to hip; Tiberius was more animated than he had been since Julian had come back, regaling Mark with what had been happening since he'd left. Julian noted how Mark's face was touched with guilt whenever his eyes slid over Tiberius's burn scars.

"Little Blackthorn," Gwyn said, catching sight of Julian, "We need to have a talk."

Julian lifted his chin, "Yeah." He squeezed Emma's hand, "We do."

Gwyn tilted his head towards Emma, "Away from here. Away from  _her_."

"No," Emma said and she dropped her voice when Mark glanced over at them, "You'll take him away."

"I have come about his promise," Gwyn said. His eyes narrowed and hardened, "My Kieran died. He died as we saved your life. The least you could do is give me this."

Kieran. Kieran, who had pulled him out of Ailill's grasp, who had looked for him in the Unseelie Court despite having no love for him, who'd been stabbed to death in Julian's place. Julian wondered if Gwyn intended to make him feel as guilty as he did.

"You owe me something, Julian Blackthorn," Gwyn said when Julian hesitated still. He tapped the mark on his own hand, "I can force it, if need be."

Emma let go of Julian's hand to jab at Gwyn's shoulder, "Just talking. I'll have my eye on you."

Gwyn lifted his head and said something to Mark in Welsh. Mark nodded and returned his attention to Tiberius, who'd broken off his story to regard Gwyn with suspicion. Gwyn ignored him and grabbed Julian's elbow, pulling him out of the door and onto the street outside. There was no wind and Julian could hear the waves crashing on the beach.

"Look, Gwyn," he said when they stopped at the edge of the beach, "I know I promised but—"

"Kieran loathed the sea," Gwyn interrupted, "He loathed its moods. He loathed how it's constantly changing. It must have wounded his poor mother, being from the sea as she was." He paused and looked across the blue water, "I wonder, perhaps, if its chaotic nature reminded him of his father."

There was something distant in his eyes, as if he was looking to some place beyond the Los Angeles ocean, to a place across the world with churning grey waves and pebbled beaches. It cracked the ageless façade of his face and brought him down to earth.

"You swore to me you would replace him, if something were to happen."

"I know," Julian said, and his thoughts dwelled on his younger brothers and sisters, "I remember." He plucked at his sleeve, looking at the welts up his arms, "Does Mark know? About that?"

"With Kieran gone? Mark deserved to know who would replace him." Gwyn looked at him but only for a moment, "You were with your brother."

"I'm still with my brother," Mark said, cuffing the back of Julian's head, "Just a different one."

"You were talking to Ty," Julian said, "He thought you were leaving."

"He had something to do," Mark said and he met Gwyn's eyes, "We can't take Julian. You're needed here, aren't you Jules?"

"Yes but the only reason you came here was because I made that promise," Julian said. He scratched at his elbow, over a bruise that he didn't remember getting, "I'll do it but I need time. Just a little bit."

"I would give you lifetimes," Gwyn said, "However, I believe I'd find you a poor replacement." He grasped Julian's wrist and turned his hand. The line was still stark, weeks later. Gwyn pressed the heel of his hand over it, "I release you from your promise."

First it was like being plunged into ice and then being wrapped in warmth. Julian felt a great weight lift off of his shoulders and he felt as light as air; not even removing the hated shackles had felt as light as this.

"What about you?" Julian said, his fingers curling against Gwyn's wrist, "Are you going to stay?"

"I can't stay," Mark said. He fidgeted with something in his cloak pocket, "I wish I could but I think having me here might make things worse."

"How?" Julian said, "We've wanted you back since we lost you. We're your family."

"Jules, I burnt down the Institute. What happened to Ty's face is my fault. There were three members of the Clave and I don't know what happened to them," Mark said and he pinched Julian's cheek, the same as he'd done when they were both younger, "They'll know. I can't put you all at risk; things are going to be bad enough." He drew something out of the pocket of his cloak, "But I do have something for you."

It was a small whistle, carved out of a rib, a pattern of twisting thorns across the smooth surface. It swung from a thin chain that pooled silvery in Julian's palm.

"If you ever find yourself in a spot you can't get out of," he said, "You or Ty or Emma or anyone else, you blow on that and I'll hear you. I'll come for you."

Julian stared down at the whistle for a moment before curling his hand around it, the bone cold beneath his fingers. He bit down on his bottom lip and wrapped his arms around Mark's neck, burying his face in his brother's shoulder. Mark's arms were around him in moments and he suddenly felt all of twelve years old again.

"You'll be all right, Jules," Mark was saying, "You'll be all right."

Julian wanted to cling to him, to hold him and keep him in the way he hadn't been able to do five years ago. He wanted one of his older siblings there so he didn't have to be the one making all the decisions, didn't have to be the one to hold the thin threads off their family together.

But he didn't. When Mark let him go and pulled back, when he slipped his hand into Gwyn ap Nudd's, Julian didn't protest. After five years, Mark had made his own choice on his own terms.

"It's not forever, Jules," Mark said, and there was a smile on the corner of his mouth, "I'll come at Christmas." Gwyn, who had turned his attention away from the sea, tugged on his arm, " _Beth yw e_?"

" _Milwyr,"_ Gwyn said, and his hand was already on the hilt of his hunting knife, "Nephilim."

Mark frowned, "Only now?"

"Maybe you should go," Julian said, watching the Shadowhunters approaching them. He recognised one of them: Lazlo Balogh, "He's the head of the Budapest Institute. He wanted Helen stripped of her marks." He swallowed and glanced at Gwyn, "He wanted you left to the Hunt."

Gwyn's mouth thinned, "So perhaps Mark should face him."

Balogh stopped only feet away. His face was masked with a thin layer of disgust when he saw Gwyn and Mark, his eyes lingering on Gwyn with the barest hint of hunger. Julian stepped away from the pair of them, putting himself between them and Balogh and his two Shadowhunters.

"Blackthorn," Balogh said, "It's unfortunate business that brings us here today." His dark eyes never fixed on Julian, instead drinking in Gwyn.

"If it's about the Institute, Uncle Arthur's with Malcolm Fade," Julian said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mark scowl, one hand curled at his side.

"Unfortunately, this is not a matter for Arthur," Balogh said, finally looking at Julian. His smile turned sly.

"Julian Blackthorn, you are under arrest for multiple violations of the Cold Peace."


End file.
